


Circles and Paradoxes II: Lucid Dreaming

by fantasticpants



Category: Metal Gear Solid 3
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-26
Updated: 2009-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticpants/pseuds/fantasticpants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>-  I -<br/></b></p></blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I don't usually dream.

Even my subconscious finds it superfluous.

A distorted remix of useless information, existing only to invoke misdirection.

But there's an exception to every rule.

When I do dream, everything is clear-cut.

You could pass your thumb over the edge of reality, and it would bleed.

The way it should be.

There's no East and West.

No good and evil.

Those ridiculous conventions don't exist.

None of the consequential mess.

There are only two halves of a whole.

They're complete opposites.

They're the same.

Warring titans.

The wind whistles around us, sharp and biting, and completely untainted. The desert is drawn in deep shades of red, creating dramatic foreshadowing.

The gun is a Platonic ideal. The purest manifestation of a weapon. A concept in physical coating.

A part of me.

"I've been waiting for you."

He doesn't say anything.

He never does.

The wind keeps blowing, mercilessly slicing away anything that doesn't belong.

It's me and him.

Nothing to get in the way.

There are no smells.

No sounds.

Only a feverish reality hanging in suspense.

I reach for the gun.

One moment left.

_Draw._


	2. How To Make Friends and Influence People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- I -  
> **

**\- I -  
**

**How to Win Friends and Influence People**

Reality is coming back.

I'm not sure I'm pleased to meet it.

A light but annoyingly insistent ache is radiating from the back of my head. A dim buzz is humming in my ears.

Altogether, not an entirely unfamiliar feeling.

I attempt without much success to assess a timeframe and a location.

It's dark. Humid.

I can hear low, measured breathing.

There's someone next to me.

When my eyes adjust to the hostile environment, I finally manage to make out his face.

"Snake!"

Who else.

"Nice to see you too, Ocelot."

It's not horribly difficult to make out the smirk lurking amidst the shadows.

"Where are we?"

"Back of a truck."

A moving truck, if my seasickness meter is correct.

"A truck."

He nods, impassive as ever.

"How did we get here?"

"I hit you over the head and brought you here," he relays helpfully, as if it's a perfectly normal behavioral pattern to be exhibiting.

"You dragged me into a truck."

"That's right."

…

"Why?"

"We need to talk."

"A caveman approach. Suits you."

"You calling me a Neanderthal?"

"No. That's too big a word to waste on you."

"You're a bit on the sour side today."

"For somebody who's just been kidnapped by an insane soldier?"

I hear a vague sigh, detect a hint of a shrug.

"Good point."

I rise to my elbows, fighting off the rapidly elevating queasiness.

Maybe I shouldn't fight it. Just vomit all over his damn truck instead. Or him.

It's almost tempting.

The shadows part some more, revealing almost nothing of interest.

Except for-

"What're you _wearing_?"

"It's a CQC Enhancer suit."

I notice a dormant note of pride in his voice.

Now I know where to aim.

"CQC… That's your judo, isn't it?" I try to distinguish the details of the suit, but it does a pretty good job of being swallowed by the surroundings. "Did you design it?"

"Yeah. You like it?"

Here's my chance for a little slice of revenge.

I'd be a fool not to take it.

"Keep your day job."

His mouth straightens into a thin line.

Bullseye.

"It's practical."

He's on the defensive now.

Perfect.

"It better be. Are those… Net pantyhose?"

I can swear I hear a distinct grit of teeth.

"Do I need to punch you out again?"

"I was just pointing out the facts."

He quirks an eyebrow at me, forming a 'is _that_ what you were doing' brand of expression.

"At least I've _had_ a change of clothes in the last six years."

"This is a _new_ uniform."

"Sure it is."

An alarming thought occurs to me.

My hand instinctively darts to the holster.

Empty.

"Where's my gun?"

"Somewhere safe."

"_Somewhere safe_ is with me."

"That'd depend on your point of view."

At the moment, my point of view isn't very accepting of others. Especially those that belong to weapon thieves.

Determined to make full use of the element of surprise, I jump to my feet, setting a collision course and instantly executing it, ramming him into the side of the truck.

It elicits a grunt – not a minor reaction; more of a compliment, really, coming from him.

Before it has a chance to get really interesting, though, I realize that the angle of the truck floor has magically changed in a way that challenges the laws of physics and general sanity.

The truck makes a sharp turn, and from the look of things, the driver is a Grand Prix reject.

The sudden gravity shift knocks me off my feet, sending me on a crash landing, face down.

He lands on top of me, though I'm guessing it's mostly by choice rather than by loss of balance.

A few beats of silence pass, vision reluctantly locking back in place before I manage to speak.

"Who's _driving_ this thing?"

He sits up, using my back as convenient leverage. He doesn't feel the need to actually climb off me, though.

"Roy Campbell. A friend of mine. You'll like each other."

"Somehow I doubt that."

I try to move, but find that battling gravity with a Snake's worth of g force isn't the simplest of tasks.

Of course, this is also the position he happens to be most chatty in.

"So. South America. Back in your natural habitat."

Judging by his tone, he might as well be discussing the weather.

"There's a crazy Russian commander on the loose. Where else would I be?"

He makes an indistinct sound, presumably voicing agreement in his own special way.

"Find anything interesting?"

"Other than your new suit? No. And I'm not sure 'interesting' is the right word for it, either."

His knee digs into my side, creating more discomfort than actual pain.

I think '_Watch it_,' is the general sentiment.

He doesn't speak, though, which means it's now my turn to run the interrogation.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Thought it was a good time to take a vacation."

"Starting with a secret military base. Interesting choice."

"Well, it was cheaper than a hotel. Better food, too. Not exactly five stars, but I couldn't pass that up."

Amusing as it may be, I decide that I'm tired of maintaining a conversation with my cheek plastered to the floor.

"Get off me."

"I don't think so."

"You're heavy enough _without_ the suit."

"Are you sure name calling is your best tactic at the moment?"

"_Move_."

"No."

I restrain the urge to growl at him.

Sarcasm is a smarter approach.

"Is the bandana cutting the blood flow to your brain?"

"Probably."

A quiet rustle of fabric follows the acknowledgement.

I don't particularly like the sound. Or the implications.

He grabs my wrists, securing them behind my back. A few quick, efficient motions bind them together while exhibiting an unorthodox use of a bandana.

I should know better than to give him ideas.

"That's better."

I can't say I share the sentiment.

I channel the uprising level of rage into my next words.

"That quality time with Volgin really rubbed off on you, didn't it?"

Zero reaction.

He's clearly in one of his 'I'm rubber, you're glue' moods.

"Don't make me use it as a gag."

He pats me on the shoulder in an infuriatingly friendly manner.

His weight is finally lifted as he climbs off, moving to kneel next to me.

I roll over, awkwardly scrambling into a sitting position.

For a wistful moment, I consider attempting to kick him in the face and hoping the spurs turn out to be useful on more than a purely decorative level.

Unfortunately, that's not the most practical action I can take right now.

So I glare, running through a list of comforting mental images.

Snake and a hive of highly agitated bees.

Snake and a sparkling new guillotine.

Snake and a Raikov-deprived Volgin.

"I'll untie you if you promise to behave."

I glare some more.

He frowns. Just barely.

I proceed to glare.

"You're not talking to me."

If I don't answer that, I'll risk looking childish.

This is clear entrapment.

"What do you _want_?"

He reacts with a simple, casual brow raise, as if he hadn't just knocked me unconscious, dragged me into a truck driven by a suicidal lunatic, stolen my gun and tied me up with a bandana.

Figures.

For him, this is the epitome of routine.

"Just your cooperation."

"And if I say no?"

"Why would you do that?"

I could think of a million reasons.

But eventually it all comes down to one.

"To spite you."

He tilts his shoulders in an indifferent shrug.

"I figured as much. Good thing I have a backup plan."

"What's that?"

He edges in closer to me, enough for some of his body heat to become infectious.

"Not taking no for an answer."

"Is that so? What are you going to do?" I unleash a smirk at him. I'm definitely behind on those. "Torture me?"

"Something like that."

Oh.

"Let's call it persuade."

"Persuade _how_?"

He sighs, a tiny ripple of frustration seeping through.

"Persuade… persuasively."

"You're a master of semantics."

Apparently losing the patience required for coherent communication, he reaches out and cups my jaw with one hand, using the other to pull my scarf lightly in his direction.

As his mouth closes over mine, I realize that it's been a painfully long wait.

And I've never considered patience much of a virtue.

He pulls away a moment later, but the traces linger on.

So.

_That_ kind of persuade.

Alright.

"Wouldn't your friend mind?"

"Roy is good at not asking questions. Besides, he's got his headphones on. Big Rolling Stones fan."

More British Invasion.

What's the world coming to?

It explains his driving, at least.

He releases his grip on my jaw, eying me coolly.

"What's your answer?"

This one is obvious enough.

"No."

His eye narrows, punctuating the dangerous, predatory glint residing inside it.

His next movements shape into a blur, but I can't afford to care too much about the details.

The bottom line is much more interesting.

His knee is now positioned between my thighs, pressing against me in a light but firm manner.

A gloved hand slips under my uniform jacket with something that would resemble casualness if it wasn't for the condensed intent going into the motion.

I suppress a shudder when it makes contact with skin, trying for whatever reason to maintain composure for as long as possible.

Which isn't very long at all, really.

Fighting the laws of nature is stupid at best, masochistic at worst.

I let my teeth dig into his lower lip – not enough to draw blood, but more than enough to earn his attention. It's the only battlefield I currently have a say in.

He deepens the kiss, and everything that isn't us fades into an irrelevant background.

Skin flushing. Heart rate rising to keep up with the pace that the moment dictates. Breathing becoming a luxury.

The engulfing sensations are strikingly familiar, but this isn't quite how it used to be.

It's rougher, more urgent.

Spinning off balance at an intoxicating rate.

This feels almost new.

Separation has its advantages, it seems.

Or maybe it's the bandana.

He breaks contact then, leaving nothing but bare air behind. I snarl, hoping this expressed the full extent of my displeasure.

Not appearing to be the least bit bothered, he somehow manages to slip back into his default, unaffected façade, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

"How about now?"

I draw a breath before replying, making sure my voice keeps from wavering.

"I don't know." Another breath is necessary. "I'll have to think about it."

A strong push sends me back into a horizontal position.

Maybe 'think' isn't the best term to use under the circumstances.

Doesn't matter.

After all, I have plenty of time to reconsider that answer.

He reaches for my belt buckle, unsnapping it in an abrupt motion.

My chuckle is intercepted by his mouth.

And the truck drives on.


	3. Design Flaws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- II -**

**\- II -**

**Design Flaws**

"You can't get it off, can you."

"Of course I can."

A minute comes and goes.

"Of course you can."

He sends me a cold glare.

"Maybe I should give it a try."

I interpret his sigh as reluctant agreement.

Another minute passes by.

"It's stuck."

"You're incredibly insightful, you know that?"

"_You_ designed that thing."

"Ever hear of a Persian flaw?"

"Ever hear of an Achilles' heel?"

"I think you're over-dramatizing it a bit."

"At least I'm not over-romanticizing it."

"I'm not – _shut up_."

The essence of the words carries on into his expression, but I've gained the ability to completely disregard it by now.

"I thought it was supposed to be _practical_. Shouldn't it have some kind of failsafe, at least? A self destruct mechanism?"

"Does your _mouth_ have one?"

Point taken.

And tossed away at the first opportunity.

"What are you really doing here?"

"Raising an army."

"With a truck."

"Do you have a better method?"

There's got to be an answer to that question.

I just can't seem to locate it.

"So what exactly do you need an army for?"

"Lots of things. I'll never have to do laundry again, for one."

I smirk.

"As if you ever did before."

He transmits a silent threat through a meaningful knit of the brow.

I decide that hygiene related comments can be postponed at least until we're out of the nightmare truck, out of survival-related considerations.

"Any other reason?"

"Gene has a working prototype of Metal Gear."

I let the air coming out of my nose express my deep concern regarding this piece of information.

"The ultimate weapon. What else is new?"

He emits a corresponding sigh.

"It does feel a bit on the déjà vu side, doesn't it?"

"You should just get one of those for yourself. That'd solve a few problems."

"And it would make a cute pet."

"What would you name it?"

He makes his pseudo-pensive face, holding it for a second or two.

"I'm thinking… Stan."

"Metal Gear Stan."

"Yeah."

"You need help."

He looks borderline offended.

"What's wrong with Stan?"

"You don't name a weapon of mass destruction… _Stan_."

The offense seemed to have crossed the border and gone on a full-scale invasion.

"Well, how would _you_ name it?"

I quickly go through my top ten list, picking one out.

"Dark Shadow."

For a moment, he just stares at me, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning. Then there's a sound – it begins as a snort, slowly picking up volume and growing into a deep chuckle.

"What are you laughing at?"

The chuckle eventually dies out, but not without undesirable aftereffects.

"Do you name your guns?"

He can't _possibly_ know that.

"No."

"Right."

"I _don't_."

"I don't believe you." He shakes his head incredulously, the smile on his face painting a direct opposition to the position my mouth is currently in. "_I_ over-romanticize."

I set my jaw, preparing to take the heat.

He doesn't disappoint.

"Okay. Let me guess-" he brings a finger to his chin in an obnoxious display of mock-contemplation. "Silent Avenger."

I clench my jaw tighter, attempting to condition my brain into blocking all sounds coming from his direction.

"Harbinger of Doom."

It's not working, obviously.

My teeth begin to ache from the applied pressure.

"Smoking Devil."

"Go to hell."

"I'm close, aren't I?"

"I was _bored_."

"Aha."

He leans in closer, head tilted in an inquisitive angle.

"So. What _other_ things do you name?"

I wonder if my face is really suffering from a spontaneous discharge of nuclear radiation, or if just feels that way.

He watches me with a bland look, as if he isn't even aware of my discomfort.

Secretly _feeding_ on it.

Like a vampire.

Do vampire snakes exist?

The concept of compassion seems to reach him eventually, or maybe he simply grows bored of badgering me.

Of course, realistically speaking, neither option is very likely. Which means he's probably just tired. Or hungry.

He slumps back, leaning against the side of the truck.

"So what if it's a girl?"

"A – _what_?"

"Metal Gear. What if it's a girl?"

"Metal Gear is _not _a girl."

"How can you be so sure?"

I think this is where I need to stop talking to preserve a shred of sanity.

Not a highly pragmatic goal, with these odds.

A triumphant expression on his end puts a halt to my search for lucidity.

"I think I got it."

Looks like he managed to untie the Gordian Knot of the suit without resorting to extreme methods.

It's a bit of a shame, really, since I was hoping a flamethrower would be needed at some point.

But the situation does present some noticeable advantages.

"Impressive."

"See? It's not such a fatal flaw."

"What if you need to undress during a mission?"

"Why would I need to _undress_ during a _mission_?"

"To seduce Metal Gear, obviously."

His mouth appears to become trapped in a fly-catching position.

"If it's a girl, that is."

His nostrils flare a bit, the rest of him remaining very much immobile.

"Not that it's a requirement, really."

He turns his head from side to side – less of a shake, more of a mental reboot.

Revenge is sweet.

"Do you _want_ me to take it off or not?"

But there are more important things than revenge.

I nod.

"Then be good."

I'm not fond of ultimatums.

But this one is tolerable. Just barely.

He unzips the front of the suit. The first thing to come into view is a scar running down his neck and onto his chest. Jagged, ugly.

Fresh.

Interesting.

"How did you get that?"

"Shaving accident."

"Maybe you should give up shaving, then."

"Maybe. The beard makes me look more respectable, anyway."

"If that's how you want to call it."

The perplexity on his face quickly cultivates into a full-blown frown.

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Did you just call me _old_?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

I try to keep a straight face. I really do.

"Just because you're barely out of your diapers doesn't mean _I'm _old."

A straight face suddenly becomes available.

"I'm _twenty six_."

"That's what I said. Bet you still have an oral fixation."

There's only one method I'm familiar with that effectively eliminates that insufferable smirk of his.

Only after I employ it, it occurs to me that it wasn't very helpful in disproving his point.

I file it away as yet another thing I need to get back at him for.

The list runs close to infinity, at this point.

But so are my ideas for retribution.

I never run out of creativity at that particular field.

I run my thumb over the new scar, examining it, trying to determine what could have caused it.

He watches me, perfectly silent.

"What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"They hurt you."

"It's nothing."

"Sure it is."

His expression makes it perfectly clear that the topic isn't up for discussion, so I let it drop. I can always make time for inquiries later.

And there are more pressing matters at hand.

Like the nape of his neck, for instance.

I alternate between tongue and teeth, putting emphasis on the latter when I'm interested in extracting a sound from him.

'Sound' might be a bit of an overstatement, though, for a muted extraction of air interlaced with a light hiss.

But this is about as vocal as he gets.

As I move on to his earlobe, an unprompted thought comes into existence.

"Snakes shouldn't have ears."

I receive a slow, methodical sideway glance for that.

"They're actually supposed to have two eyes, too."

Ouch.

Well.

Minor technicality.

Before I manage to regain the proper focus, he places the palm of his hand flatly over my chest, keeping me at bay.

"What?"

"The truck just stopped."

A fact I probably should've paid attention to, considering the disquieting lack of all-encompassing vertigo and impending doom.

"So?"

He exhales, the warm air clashing with the chillier atmosphere and transforming into fumes.

"Raincheck."

"No."

"Not a question."

I don't bother restraining the groan of frustration.

The driver _will_ pay.

I struggle to bring my clothes into proper order, barely managing to button the jacket all the way up, while Snake re-suits in the course of a few seconds and without any apparent effort whatsoever.

There's something fundamentally insulting about that.

A shadow appears outside of the truck, eventually manifesting as a blond, scruffy guy with a bandage stretched across his chest, almost decoratively.

Weird hair.

The intruder offers me a look soaked with lukewarm disregard, which I reflect with what I hope translates smoothly into outright, ice-flavored hostility.

When he turns to Snake, the optical temperature rises by several degrees.

I don't like this one bit.

"Home sweet home," he relays in a well-rehearsed, raspy soldier's monotone. It carries an ironic edge, a step away from outright caricaturing.

Sure.

The logic is abundantly clear.

And equally depressing.

Home is where the truck is.


	4. Social Butterfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- III -**

**\- III -**

**Social Butterfly**

Ocelots are nocturnal hunters, stalking their prey under the deep cover of the night.

Consequentially, I'm not much of a morning person.

Especially not _this _morning.

The surrounding ozone is enwrapped by the insistent sound of birds chirping, using that incredibly audibly-offensive tone they've perfected over the course of evolution.

To me, it sounds remarkably close to 'shoot me'.

I'm almost ready to take them up on that at this point.

Sadly, they're responsible for only a small portion of the overall problem.

Another culprit is the sun, unjustly bright for the season, prompting an irrational feeling of homesickness.

At least the motherland has the courtesy to make winter appear like winter, instead of pulling these cheap optical tricks.

And despite the unwelcome brightness, Snake is nowhere to be seen.

Not that it's a new thing, with him.

Probably found some special wall to blend with.

Leaving me alone with his freak show of an army.

Which is probably generous terminology, considering how competent this bunch looks.

The dark haired medic, now in the process of examining a plant that I wouldn't classify as exotic if it spit or bit me in the face, is probably the only one of them whose existence hasn't completely grated on my nerves yet.

It only goes downhill from there.

A pack of nameless soldiers are standing about uselessly, managing to be ineffectual even as a scarecrow guard.

"You can't always get what you wa-ant."

And the main exhibit – Campbell, singing along to one of those inane excuses for songs that he happens to love so much.

There are slightly better ways to start the day off on the wrong foot – slicing it off with a saw, for instance – but this one is pretty high up there.

He's even performing a guitar mimic motion.

The Green Beret acceptance bar must have plummeted considerably.

"But if you try sometime, you just might find- you get what you need."

_Like_ each other.

Right.

Sometimes, I wonder what goes on inside Snake's head.

But it's probably better left there, for general safety.

Campbell is sharper than he looks, though, I have to give him that much.

Probably projecting the aura of an underachiever by choice.

A survival technique.

I can respect that.

The next person to cross my path doesn't quite belong to that classification.

He's armed with an expression that has only two possible states - blissfully blank and edgily nervous, as well as a set of blue eyes bristling with all the intelligence of a genetic mutation between a fish and a cow.

Johnny Sasaki.

Unbelievable.

"Sir!"

The salute is awkwardly executed, as if he's trying very hard not to injure his head in the process.

Probably learned that from experience.

As touching as this little get-together is, I can't help but be overcome with dismay.

This must be a universal joke at my expense.

There's no other explanation.

"Snake recruited _you_?"

"Uh, well," he pauses, due to either a stammer or mental lag, "I volunteered. Sir."

"Volunteered," I have to repeat it to make sure my hearing isn't impaired. "_Why?_"

"Unemployment is pretty bad," he gnaws on his lip meticulously, concluding with a self-conscious shrug. "You know."

Can't say that I do.

I draw my gun and aim at his foot, pulling the trigger before he even gets the chance to string together a corresponding thought in what some people might mistake for a brain.

The revolver slides smoothly back into the holster before a high-pitched wail encompasses the nearby area.

"Get a desk job."

A weighty silence sets afterwards, interrupted periodically by a shocked snivel.

I'm not a fan of awkward silences, so I break it a few seconds later.

"Or try the Salvation Army."

The scene unfreezes along with the silence, first with the medic scurrying over to Johnny's side, then with a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around, only to encounter a fist to the jaw.

It's not the force of it that causes me to revisit the ground in an unfavorable position, but the unexpectedness.

I bring a hand to my jaw for damage assessment, and it greets me with an acknowledging, rather significant ache.

This is going to bruise.

I look up slowly, coming to lock gazes with Campbell, who's wearing a narrow-eyed and intent expression.

Nice to know the dislike is mutual.

Actually, make that _loathing_.

He raises an eyebrow, managing to convey unbearable smugness with one simple motion.

"What's the matter? Not so anxious to bully up to someone your own size?"

I'd point out that Johnny _is_ my own size, but it's not exactly on the top of my priorities right now.

"You pathetic, stupid little piece of –"

The problem with elaborate insults arises when there are too many variants to choose from.

Genetic waste.

Hippie scum.

Lithuanian garbage.

Well, the last one doesn't apply that well to him, but it's still a favorite of mine.

And I don't want to waste something _really_ good on him.

"What?"

"_Chickenshit._"

His face is momentarily painted with puzzlement.

"And what the hell is that supposed to-"

He doesn't get to complete the query, because I'm already on my feet, directing a punch to the side of his face.

It connects, satisfyingly enough, sending him a few unsteady steps backwards.

He recovers quickly, adapting a boxer-like stance.

Predictable.

But not predictable enough for me to stop his next attack.

The blow splits my lip.

The salty taste of blood, combined with the fresh sting, waves a red flag in the center of my vision.

I need a weak spot to focus on.

Bandage.

I don't hit too hard, just enough to remind him of whatever he's hiding behind it.

Which is more than enough, apparently.

He emits a nearly feral hiss, dropping to his knees and clutching at the bandaged area.

I couldn't wish for a better position.

Kicking a man while he's down isn't a very honorable thing to do.

But this _is_ Campbell.

I can't always get what I want, but sometimes, I get just what need.

I get him in the stomach. Hard.

He releases a pained groan through his teeth.

He should be grateful I'm not employing the spurs.

Yet.

The next kick isn't quite as successful, since he manages to grab my foot, pulling me to the ground.

This position is considerably less desirable.

Especially when he starts to pound the back of my head against the surface.

I aim a headbutt to the general direction of his nose.

Hard to miss.

There's a crunching sound.

Now _this _is what I call music.

The blood starts flowing immediately, his eyes watering like a little schoolgirl's.

The rage they display doesn't look exactly like schoolgirl material, though.

Unless it's a _really_ agitated one.

The next slam my head takes is considerably sharper, blurring my sight around the edges.

I don't get a chance to counter it, because he's suddenly pulled off me, leaving a feeling of intense dissatisfaction.

A nose is not enough.

"Do I need to _tranq_ the two of you?"

Snake ex machina.

Where _did_ he come from?

Must've grown tired of the wall blending, exciting as that activity must be.

"Roy. Truck."

He gives an astute nod, its professional nature marred by the fact he's holding his hand over the injured nose.

Before heading off in his beloved truck's direction, he throws me a look meant to kill – too bad it doesn't have a license.

Campbell seems to respond well to monosyllabic commands. Not a surprising revelation.

I get up, brushing the dust off my uniform.

Not for long, though, because Snake grabs me by the front of the jacket, slamming me into a conveniently positioned tree and knocking all available breath out of me in the process.

"What _the hell_ was that all about?"

"_He_ started it."

"I'm not talking about Roy."

Then what –

Johnny.

Why does he even care about that?

"I did him a favor."

"A _favor_?"

"The man can barely tie his shoelaces." I glance in the subject matter's direction - still whining consistently despite the medic's best efforts. "Unless it's together," I amend. "The only other way he'd have gotten out of here is in a coffin."

I receive a frown for that.

He knows it's true.

"There are nicer ways of going about it, you know."

"This one was the quickest. He's not even good as cannon fodder. He would've gotten someone else killed."

"Even so, your gun isn't the ultimate solution to everything."

True.

Only to _almost_ everything.

"It's only pain. He'll get over it. I'm sure his family would prefer him limping than dead."

It doesn't look like he's interested in excuses, valid or not.

"It might not be official, but this _is_ an army. You do remember what a chain of command is, don't you?"

I try to hold my gaze, but find it an exponentially difficult feat.

Eventually, all I manage is a single nod.

He leans closer in, and even though he bears little to no similarity to Volgin, it still feels like there's a tense electric charge in the air between us.

"Next time you get the urge to do target practice on someone's foot, you let me know. Are we _clear_?"

I can't think of anything clever to say.

Nor do I particularly want to.

"We're clear."

"Good," the lethal seriousness is elevated from his tone, and I'm not entirely sure that's a good thing. "Wouldn't want to have to use a rolled up newspaper to drive the point home."

Clearly, it's not a good thing.

"And your combat technique is rusty."

Adding insult to injury. Or technically, insult to insult to insult to injury.

He tugs on my jacket slightly before releasing it.

"Come on."

As we begin to walk away from the truck perimeter, a dozen or so glares find a convenient focus point in me, ranging from intense disapproval - this one originates from the medic - to optical death wishes.

I have a feeling I won't be very well liked around here.

Believing in God isn't the communist thing to do, but if I did believe in somebody up there, I'd be expressing my sincere gratitude right about now.

The last thing I need is to bond with the Truck Army.

Well.

With the exception of Campbell's nose.

Evaluating my wins and losses, I realize that maybe, relatively speaking, it isn't such a bad morning after all.


	5. Zen and the Art of CQC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- IV -  
> **

**\- IV -  
**

**Zen and the Art of CQC**

This is getting a little old.

The sting in my jaw and lip has been slowly yet ruthlessly usurped by a full-body soreness, with no prospect of reprieve anytime soon.

He extends his hand, and I reluctantly grab it, allowing him to pull me off the ground.

The ground and I seem to have connected on more than one level by now.

Maybe I should give it a nickname, too.

Not Stan.

_Anything_ but Stan.

I'd even settle for Bob. Or Bill.

This is a new low point for me.

Back on my feet, I maintain a grip of his hand, entrapping his gaze with mine.

"Who says I have a problem with chains of command?"

"No one," his tone is even, free of fluctuations. "I'm sure Volgin would've given you great references." An irony-flavored quirk of the lip precedes the supplement to the sentence, "If he wasn't in a slightly fried state."

"Volgin _inspired_ insubordination."

He forms a deeply concentrated thinking face.

"A sort of… betrayal muse."

Good way of putting it.

"Something like that."

"And that's it?"

The skepticism is blatant.

Most things about him are.

No problem.

I can play along. Employ some blatancy of my own.

"I'm loyal to whoever deserves my loyalty."

"That simple, huh?"

If only.

Reality and simplicity don't mesh.

Not in my world, at least.

But there is only so much I can tell him, considering he's one of the complications.

The biggest one, probably.

I release his arm, stepping backwards and shifting into a fighting posture.

He mirrors my movements, but uses his own stance – the visually offensive but disturbingly effective one.

"You're saying you'd never go against the chain of command?"

He allows for several idle moments to slip between the question and the answer.

"Never is a strong word."

"So you _would_."

"I didn't say that."

Evasion is one thing I could always best him at.

It's the difference between soldiers and spies.

"Everything is circumstantial."

He appears to take this in, not budging an inch from his position.

I remain still as well. It's a more difficult feat for me to master, considering it's not my natural state.

If the world saving super soldier business ever ran dry, he could have a solid career as a rock.

The stillness is finally parted by a slow smile. It represents the near opposite of a smile, though, tinted by a pained, shadowed veil of grimness.

"Not everything."

"Oh? And what isn't?"

"A person's nature."

I can't resist a laugh.

"You're joking. That's the most circumstantial thing there is."

The puzzling expression is discarded in favor of a bare one.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"But I am."

The smile returns, actually behaving like one this time around.

"So you're on the nurture side of the fence."

"I didn't say that."

"Right. Fences aren't even a consideration for you."

I smirk. Haven't found a fence that couldn't be bypassed yet.

"They only have a relative meaning. And relative importance."

"Thought as much."

He makes the first move, closing the distance and taking the offensive. It's a simple test jab, easy to intercept.

After that, he steps back, simply watching.

Starting slow.

Not his usual method.

"You can go a lifetime without even knowing what your 'nature' is, Snake. Be just another blind sheep in the flock. Most people are."

Not necessarily _sheep_, either.

"I'm not talking about most people."

Neither am I.

It's my turn to attack.

I go with a kick to the abdomen, connecting with his arm instead.

The force of the deflection creates a new gap, but a balance is kept.

He flexes his shoulders before metamorphosing back into a still life painting.

"Sooner or later, you're forced to face who you are."

I didn't know he specialized in advanced fortune cookie studies.

"Interesting theory. But you're more likely to face death before you face yourself."

He demolishes the tranquil façade with a rapid succession of inhumanly precise motions.

The next thing I come to face is the ground.

It's not a very pleasant face-to-face, either.

"Now _that's_ circumstantial."

Not the wording I would've picked.

'Grotesquely aggravating' comes to mind.

The mention of death has apparently exterminated this thread of conversation, and as I end my grounded state, he sends the discussion to a new turn.

"So I see you've been making yourself some new friends."

I spread my arms wide, hopefully dispersing the spirit of cynicism onto an unsuspecting world.

"What can I say? I'm a people person."

"I would have gone with 'a fresh ray of sunshine', myself."

"That's only a part-time occupation."

"Look, if you're concerned about fitting in –"

He can't be serious.

"_Concerned_? I'm not _interested_ in fitting in."

He expels a quiet breath that seems to serve as a laconic sigh.

"You'll have to trust them at some point."

"No, I won't. That was never a part of the deal."

I wait for a response, but he provides none, seemingly content to let this drop for the time being.

That's something, at least.

Dead air wraps over the following stretch of time, with only the sound of carefully controlled breathing and sudden, abrupt contact embellishing the auditory realm.

I make no visits to the ground, which isn't a negligible accomplishment.

Unfortunately, neither does he.

Eventually, he makes the first breach through the silence.

"What have you been up to?"

He throws a punch to spice the question up.

I manage to dodge it.

"Up to?"

"It's been a while."

A while.

He's an expert in understatements.

"Multitasking."

"Which tasks in particular?"

I briefly consider making something up, but decide to go with the truth instead.

Saves the retroactive headache later on.

"Brushing up on interrogation techniques."

"Torture," he corrects tonelessly.

I see no point in arguing about semantics.

"That's right."

A rough, sandpaper-textured quality enters his voice, though nothing else appears to change.

"Not sure 'right' is the term you're looking for, there."

That strikes a nerve, and I'm not even sure why.

Is he trying to seize the moral high ground?

"They're prisoners. Murderers, rapists. They all deserve what they get."

He performs a noncommittal gesture with his head, outside the sphere of agreement or disagreement.

"Dehumanization."

I fail to find relevant context in that comment, shooting him with a questioning glare between blow exchanges.

He employs a brief pause to respond.

"That's what they call it. It's a basic brainwashing tactic. If you don't see them as people, then their pain won't be real to you."

He can't honestly think that kind of pitiful trick would work on me.

My agitation is beginning to expand beyond cerebral territory.

It slips into the physical one, baiting me into a more aggressive tactic.

My next strike catches him off-guard, triggering a rare grimace, along with a few feet worth of retreat.

I'm aware of the unpleasant nature of the smirk I direct towards him, but can't bring myself to care too deeply about it.

"Oh, believe me, it's _very_ real."

His face appears to be practically set in stone, but his gaze somehow transmits an icy chill straight into my spine.

"Do you enjoy it?"

"_What_?"

"Do you?"

I don't like the implications that question conceals.

It's accompanied by a highly undesirable, creeping sensation that I'm unable to discard.

"It's a skill, not a hobby."

"It's not just that."

This is a pure statement, not in the least bit disputable.

We both know it.

My reply arrives uninvited, without much of a though process behind it.

"You can test people with pain. This is how you find out whether a person is really more than just flesh and blood."

The freeze-factor in his eye abates by a slight degree.

"That's one hell of a test."

"Trial by fire. It's the oldest trick in the book. Works like a charm."

And now I'm acutely aware of the unpleasant nature of the smirk he's giving me.

This can't be good.

I barely succeed in blocking his first attack, only to realize it was a fake-out.

The impact is exceptionally hard this time around.

Ground.

Great.

He doesn't let me up this time, pressing me to the surface while holding my arm in an unbreakable lock.

"That's three clichés in a row. You're slipping."

"It was an _accident_."

"I hope it was."

I emit a frustrated hybrid between a hiss and a sigh into the dirt, waiting for him to let go.

I wait.

And I wait.

When I begin to consider swallowing my pride and reminding him that moving would be nice at some point, he speaks.

"So how exactly would it affect you, do you think?"

"What, you twisting my arm? I'm sure it'll be_ highly_ beneficial in the long term."

"Torture."

It's his clear-cut, no-bullshit tone, and my annoyance suddenly becomes irrelevant on the large scale of things.

I need to make him understand.

"If you're strong enough, it'll only make you stronger."

"And if you aren't?"

"Then you shouldn't be in that position in the first place."

I feel the need to see his face right now, but the position doesn't allow it.

I wonder if that was his intention.

I can't read his reaction at all this way.

It's… discomforting.

"What about psychological damage?"

I snort, the contemptuous sound muffled partially by the ground.

"I don't believe in it. Only cowards run from reality."

Whether my conviction reaches him is a point for debate.

It feels as if the other end of the exchange isn't him, but my good friend, the ground.

"You ever been tortured?"

The question, clean of inflection or nuance except for plain curiosity, hangs over me. Its weight is bigger than expected, threatening to become crushing.

"No."

Not exactly.

Not with _pain_.

"It's not as fun as it sounds."

I notice my breathing rate has sped up, refusing to follow my command.

Something about this goes far beyond unpleasant.

When he releases my arm, it comes as more of a surprise than a relief.

His presence is amputated, and I take a few moments before I make a swift roll that brings me back to my feet - a movement that would've been elegant if it wasn't for the high quotient of disorientation this little chat has induced.

He's standing about idly, looking deceptively close to boredom.

This only escalates the untamed, unbalanced sting in my chest, my hands drawing into fists before I will them to.

"I'm not a _sadist_."

He finally gains an expression, and not a very subtle one at that.

There is a dark overtone to it, not innately incriminating, but certainly not helpful in guilt alleviation.

"I hope not. I'd hate to have misjudged you."

Another man saying these words would have evoked nothing but irritation.

It's different with him.

Physically painful.

"I don't need your approval."

"No. But you want it."

The son of a bitch knows that, and he's using it against me.

You couldn't play dirtier if you were participating in a mud wrestling contest in a Ukrainian brothel.

I shouldn't have to justify myself to anyone, least of all him.

"I do whatever needs to be done."

It's not an excuse.

But it's the best explanation I can offer.

"I know."

His acknowledgement shouldn't matter. Shouldn't even be a relevant factor.

But it does.

The necessity for a meaningful silence is eliminated as his eyebrows assume a rueful stance.

"You know, technically, you should always land on your feet."

With that, things slide back into their proper place, warranting the illusion that this conversation never really happened.

"_Technically_, you should always be on the ground. You're cheating."

"Cheating is a good strategy."

I can't disagree with that.

Back in sparring-mode, we circle each other, and I decide that it's my turn to ask the questions.

"Where have you been this morning?"

"Did some scouting at Gene's."

Wall blending.

I knew it.

"And?"

He takes a while to respond, speaking with a strange intonation when he does.

"Something isn't right here. I can feel it."

"When is it ever?"

Another pause, implying that he's stuck in a mental labyrinth of some sort.

"It's different this time."

The connotation behind the words isn't difficult to make out.

"You're questioning your mission."

It's more than that.

He's beginning to question his place.

"I'm not questioning. Just looking for a broader perspective."

"Soldiers shouldn't have a broader perspective. It's against the rules."

"Nothing wrong in going against the rules every once in a while."

Of course not.

But soldiers are bred to think in simple terms.

He's losing his focus.

"I'm not sure your superiors will share the sentiment."

"My superiors and I aren't big on sharing."

Bitter.

It's a nearly insignificant tinge, but it's there.

I can understand it.

But that's not beneficial in any way.

I need to warn him.

"Don't do anything stupid."

Like making oblique, meaningless statements.

"What are you talking about?"

Terrific. Brand new method of painting myself into a corner.

I unleash a round of blitzkrieg, hoping for the inquiry to be devoured amidst it.

It fails to erase the raised brow, and eventually I'm forced to give him something.

"Nothing."

Learning to live with the Cassandra Syndrome is part of the job description.

It begins to rain.

Actually, 'begins' is a very minimalist way of putting it.

I haven't had a shower this brutally efficient in a while.

It takes about thirty seconds for my uniform to turn into an assortment of wet rags.

His suit, of course, is waterproof.

Irony can be a truly despicable creature sometimes.

I resume the offensive post, succeeding in upsetting his guard several times.

I finally gain an appreciative glance for my efforts.

"You're getting better."

He means it.

It doesn't matter. It's not good enough.

He's always a little quicker.

A little stronger.

Thing is, I'm always one step ahead.

And one step is all I need.

I take a careless step in his direction. He takes advantage of it, making a grab and spinning me into a chokehold.

"Now that's not a position you'd want to be in."

"Says who?"

I quickly reposition my foot behind his, and make a sharp pull backwards, igniting a rapid balance shift.

This time, when we greet the ground, he absorbs the impact for the both of us.

He can be useful that way.

I exploit the momentum to slip out of his grasp, turning over and pinning him to the ground.

"Hmm. That's pretty good."

I grit my teeth, loudly.

I never want to hear these words from him again.

Agitating me was probably his intent all along, since in the following second, the position reverses, leaving my favor.

I refuse to accept it, especially considering the repellent texture of the rain-soaked ground.

I force another roll, retrieving dominance.

It doesn't last long, naturally.

A few rolls later, it begins to resemble mud wrestling.

Too bad there are no brothels in sight.

When I finally conclude that I've had enough of this merry-go-round, I use a spare moment between rolls to draw the revolver, pressing it to his temple as he gains high ground.

"I win."

Incredulity transmits clearly from his face.

"That doesn't count."

"Really? I thought cheating was a good strategy."

"Depends on who's cheating."

It's not successful cheating unless you're prepared to go all the way with it, and I have no qualms about that.

I lead my hand to the back of his head, ignoring the impressive amount of sludge stranded throughout his hair, and pull him into a kiss, savoring the precious, rare control.

He brings it to an abrupt, premature stop, not even leaving room for objection.

I briefly contemplate pulling the trigger.

"Someone's coming."

_Someone_.

Somehow, I think I have a pretty good idea who it might be.

Shockingly enough, my guess turns out to be correct.

Campbell, now with a brand new bandage on his face.

He should start a collection.

I could even volunteer to add a few more.

"We need to move."

What goes after loathing?

Thorough repugnance? Seething hatred? Nuclear warfare?

Whatever it is, I doubt even that would be enough to describe the depth of my feelings towards him.

When he retreats into the forest, I let a growl escape my chest.

"I_ swear_ I'll shoot him next time."

Or sooner, if only he gives me the opportunity.

Snake gets up, and I follow, holstering the gun and trying desperately to shoot down the protesting signals my body keeps producing.

He places a hand on my shoulder in a poor attempt of placation.

"You know what?"

I take a deep breath.

Count from one to ten.

Imagine going on a nice, relaxing round of Russian roulette with Campbell.

Much better.

"_What?_"

"I might let you."


	6. Magical Mystery Tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- V -  
> **

**\- V -  
**

**Magical Mystery Tour**

I don't notice the pain until we're out of the building, and the heat of battle wears off.

Now it's coming through in surprisingly intense waves, starting from my thigh and traveling throughout whatever available nerve it can find. It's also carting nausea along, probably for dessert.

I realize I probably won't be able to stand for much longer.

I take a few stability-lacking steps backward before my back connects with a tree trunk.

"You're injured."

A growling tree-trunk, with a tendency of stating the glaringly obvious.

Alright, maybe not a tree-trunk, then.

It's sometimes hard to tell the difference, with such similar movement ratios.

Hands grasp my shoulders firmly, proceeding to spin me around - an intrusion I'd normally resist, but right now a resistance would likely result in a session of connecting with the ground on a personal level.

Not much dignity in either option.

Thoughts regarding dignity evaporate as I take in his expression.

It's significantly closer to a scowl than a frown.

This is new.

"Why didn't you say something?"

The question makes little to no sense.

"Doesn't it speak for itself?"

He extracts a substantial amount of air through his teeth, the scowl turning more acute.

"You're impossible."

"I do my best."

He switches to ignoring-me mode, turning his attention to the fresh wound instead.

His assessment follows soon enough.

"It doesn't look good."

Can't accuse him of being overly encouraging, at least.

"Come on."

He slings my arm over his shoulder, anchoring the other one around my waist.

"I can-"

"Would you prefer I carried you? That's not a problem."

"But-"

"Shut up."

He's acting strangely.

Edgy, almost.

And he's not the one losing blood at a truly impressive rate.

As I half limp, half get dragged along, I try to figure out why.

The realization finally dawns in.

"You're worried."

He doesn't bother with redundant movements and expressions, only turning his head slightly towards me.

"Yeah."

The idea is fundamentally amusing. I chuckle, but it comes out as a less defined, more unhinged sound than intended.

"Why?"

"_Why?_"

The echo sounds intensely incredulous.

"That's not a very good answer."

He just shakes his head, apparently concluding his end of the conversation.

Odd.

Speaking of which…

I glance back at the building, now a hazy spot in the distance.

"There was a ninja in there."

"Yeah."

"A _ninja_, Snake."

"I heard you."

I don't know what insults my sense of reality more, the presence of a ninja on a modern battlefield, or Snake's casual take on the situation.

Maybe becoming delusional would be the safest course of action at the moment. Self preservation of a sort.

We finally reach our destination – the immortal Truck HQ.

It's blurrier than usual. Artistically smeared.

It doesn't make it any more appealing, though.

He sets me on the ground, the degree of thought and caution going into this one simple action striking me as wildly exaggerated.

For a moment, I consider making a flippant remark regarding flesh wounds, but an informative glance to the injury in question causes me to rethink that plan. There's actually a surprisingly copious amount of blood involved, too.

It's mesmerizing, in some strange way.

Like a field rapidly catching fire.

Or a mushroom cloud on the horizon.

You can't look away.

Snake doesn't seem to be as deeply taken by that philosophy, as his visual analysis lasts the whole of five seconds, the assessment following directly on its heels.

"We need to take care of this right away."

The urgency of his tone finally catches up to me.

This _is_ serious.

"Where's Para-Medic?"

"She's away on a mission. I'll have to do it."

He puts a mildly distressing emphasis on the statement by calmly drawing his CQC knife.

"No."

"I thought we've been over this. You need to trust me."

"I trust you fine. I just don't trust you with a knife."

His brow furrows, as if he hasn't yet figured out whether he should be insulted by this.

"I've done this a hundred times."

I've seen things that he's done a hundred times with a knife. None of them is something I'd particularly like to be applied to me.

"I want Para-Medic."

I regret the sentence the moment it comes out of my mouth.

Gunshot wounds and mature conversation skills aren't the best of friends.

"We _could_ wait. And you could bleed out like a pig in the meanwhile." The harsh tone is replaced with a vaguely mocking one, "But that wouldn't be very Ocelot-like, would it?"

He's talking to me as if I was a five-year-old.

Not entirely uncalled for, but still a low blow.

I'd punch him, but my limbs feel like surprisingly close relatives of Jell-O.

Maybe later.

"Fine."

Another verbal misstep I'll probably come to severely regret in the near future.

He doesn't waste any time, tugging my pants down to my knees unceremoniously. This is not to say it's a deed with many overly ceremonious connotations, but he succeeds in making it even less so.

I can't say this is the foremost of my concerns, as the shift of fabric and its replacement by cold air creates a sensory alteration, shoving everything under the spotlight.

I'm barely aware of something akin to a gasp leaving my lips without my consent.

My body adjusts quickly, resuming a more bearable state of existence.

Without the uniform filtering the sight, the wound resembles a messy Impressionist piece, with a touch of finger painting.

It's not nearly as impressive as I expected, though.

Too small.

Almost pitifully so.

Hardly justifies the amount of pain it's supplying.

I don't get to share my disappointment with Snake, since he's already at work, taking out an array of medical supplies located in seemingly invisible pockets in his suit.

I go with the safe choice this time, keeping my questions to myself.

The bandana turns out to be even more multi-purposeful than previously believed, easily transforming into a makeshift tourniquet.

The gleam of the knife maintains a consistently troublesome presence, but for now, it remains free of application.

Setting the relevant supplies on the ground beside me, he begins to speak.

"I remember the first time I was injured."

An automatic defense mechanism springs into action.

"This isn't the first-"

He ignores me.

How atypical.

"It was a training mission, live rounds. Not a very glorified way of getting your first battle scar. I got careless, wasn't very good at thinking ahead back then."

"Back then?"

He continues perfecting the art of pretending I don't exist.

"Caught a stray bullet in the shoulder. I was about as green as it gets. Didn't think anything could hurt like that."

A faint smile seeks a temporary retreat on his lips.

Things must look pretty funny in retrospective.

When I actually allow myself to listen, I find that the idea of him as a rookie is difficult to swallow, to say the least. Despite being technically obvious, it upsets the natural balance of the universe, in a way.

"There was no time to get the medic, so The Boss had to treat me on the spot."

"I bet she had a better bedside manner than you."

He arrives at the juncture point between a smirk and a distinct lack of expression, while tilting the knife towards me in a manner that would appear offhanded on anyone else. I fight off the nagging instinct to back away as he brings it a bit too close for comfort.

"Actually, she told me to stop whining and take it like a man."

_Whining?_

The not-so-well-hidden insinuation isn't something I plan on taking lightly.

I try to lift myself into a position from which I could inflict at least a minimal amount of harm, but encounter the uncharacteristically problematic concept of gravity.

For some reason, it appears that my head alone is twice my usual overall weight. As a result, it ends up connecting with the ground not long after the attempted takeoff, producing a dim thud that becomes instantly absorbed into my consciousness.

The blurriness returns with a vengeance, but otherwise no difference whatsoever is made to the quality of the situation, for better or worse.

He acts as if he hadn't even noticed this fruitless endeavor.

"She also told me about the first time she was injured."

I'm starting to sense a subtle pattern here.

"Are you making this up on the spot?"

He counters this with a stern look, as if the implication of the very possibility is highly offensive.

"Of course not."

I shake my head in disbelief, stopping once the world begins to spin out of control.

He disregards the motion, continuing to weave his soldier's fairy tale.

"It was during the war. She was hit by a sniper's bullet to the chest. It missed her heart by only a few millimeters. Pure blind luck."

If by that he means that the sniper was blind, then maybe I'd be willing to believe it.

As it stands, I keep to the safety blanket of skepticism.

"She was hanging between life and death. There was only so much the medics could do for her."

At least they weren't trying to talk her to death.

"She dreamt she was in a river, just floating on the surface peacefully, waiting for the water to take her away. She was almost ready to die."

He shoots an appraising glance to my wound, probably making sure I'm not getting ready to die just yet.

"Then, she felt a presence beside her. She turned to look, and saw a man in the water, just floating there, like she was. They started talking, about all sorts of things. Hobbies, cinema, philosophy, war, life."

I attempt to look as uninterested as possible, but the story is outlandish enough to capture my attention.

"Eventually, he said that it was time for them to be getting back. He offered her his hand and she took it. That's when she woke up in the military hospital. The man was sitting by her bed, smiling. Apparently, she was in a coma for over a week, and he was there the whole time." He pauses to form a frown, probably battling the ridiculousness of the following statement. "He brought her back."

I feel the need to bring some rationality into the picture, even if it is just an urban legend.

"Near death experiences can twist your perceptions. She was probably just imagining the whole thing."

"Maybe. But after that, they became inseparable. Later, they formed the COBRA unit together."

Charming.

But I'm a little old for bedtime stories, Snake-style.

"Too bad they didn't live happily ever after, eh?"

He gives a part-grimace part-smirk, more melancholy than annoyance tinged.

"We're not cut out for happily ever afters."

Well, he got something right, at least.

"Was there a point to this little story?"

"_The point_ was getting you to relax before I start poking you with a knife."

Ah.

"It didn't work."

"That's a shame," he doesn't sound remorseful in the least. "Now, stop being such a baby. It won't hurt at all. And you'll get a lollipop afterwards."

I suddenly come up with a new and exciting use for a bandana.

Strangulation.

"I hate you."

He doesn't appear to take this very earnest sentiment close to heart.

"That's nice." He makes another visit to the secret pocket, now coming up with a random piece of wood. "Bite on this."

There's something else I'd rather bite on.

But I follow his instructions, letting him insert it into my mouth and locking my teeth over it.

"Now hold still."

A deceptively simple command.

My hand takes an instinctive route towards my gun, removing it from the holster and placing it on the ground next to me.

I keep a steady grip on it, a mandatory connection point to a reality that's about to slip away a moment from now.

When the knife is a mere inch from my thigh, he halts, looking up to catch my gaze.

He uses his free hand to grasp my thigh, keeping it immobile.

"It's only pain. You'll get over it."

I wonder if he means it as payback for Johnny, or a lesson of some kind, but his voice sounds earnest enough.

He maintains eye contact, waiting for a cue of approval from me. Lacking in the option department, I offer a nod.

As the sharp metal connects with the wound, goose bumps begin run over my skin, setting everything on edge.

Then it grows much worse, without the smallest warning.

I'm no stranger to pain, but I can't recall the last time it felt so _concentrated_.

The taste of wood is getting stronger, attempting to set off a gag reflex. I barely manage to suppress it.

I try to keep watching his actions, but the blurriness is becoming moist, forcing me to shut my eyes tight.

A disturbing idea occurs to me – what if time is really relative, and this is going to last an eternity?

"That's it."

What?

I open my eyes, blinking the gathered dampness away.

He wipes the bloodied knife over my pants - this would have bothered me if they hadn't already been in an exceedingly disgraceful condition – then returns it to appropriate location in his suit.

The offending bullet is resting between his thumb and forefinger, a pathetic, harmless looking speck of lead, dyed red.

I hold my hand out, and he drops it into my palm.

"Any plans for it?"

I belatedly realize that speaking with a mouthful of wood isn't an easy task.

An obscure, disjointed mumble is produced.

He nods in solemn agreement.

"Interesting."

I spit the damn thing out, glaring at him.

Well, one of him, at any rate, since he's just split into three.

Multiplying like a germ.

Another thing snakes aren't supposed to do.

I place the bullet in my jacket pocket, taking four attempts until my hand reaches its destination.

In the meanwhile, he applies the content of a suspicious looking bottle to my wound, bringing a relentless sting to the area. It joins the general muffled chaos my body is experiencing, fading into the background.

"Okay. Just need to stitch it up."

A needle appears in his hand, sparkling menacingly.

I pull backwards sluggishly.

He lifts an eyebrow.

"Afraid of needles?"

"No. I just don't trust them."

"What _do_ you trust?"

Whether the question is rhetorical or not, I spend the next few minutes looking for an answer.

I fail to find one.

Several sharp tinges of pain derail my train of thought, disappearing within an instance.

"Okay. You're good."

The declaration takes me by surprise.

"I am?"

The dizziness is starting to overcome the pain now.

"Yeah. You'll probably need a few days to recover, and you'll be good as new."

"A _few days_?"

"You were lucky. It could've been much worse."

Probably true.

But what does he expect me to do for a few days?

He brushes his thumb over the stitched up wound lightly.

"It should scar nicely. You'll be able to show it off in no time."

This is the equivalent of his earlier lollipop promise.

Equally empty.

Bullet wounds don't scar 'nicely'.

"It's not very strategically placed for that. And I have better things to show off when I'm taking my pants down."

He takes a sharp sniff of air, which means he's repressing a chuckle.

It wasn't supposed to be _funny_.

"True."

He begins to wrap a bandage around my leg, and as I drift on a current of gradually disbanding reality, a worrying memory surfaces up.

"Where's my hat?"

He tilts his head in an indistinct direction.

"Probably lost it back there."

_Lost_ it?

It can't be.

He pats me on the shoulder reassuringly.

"Don't worry, I'll get you another one."

"I don't _want _another one. I like_ my_ hat."

Before he comes up with a suitable answer, I spot a familiar face among the sea of anonymous soldiers swamping the environment. A disgustingly _pretty_ face. Silvery blond hair. A freshly ironed, perfectly fitted uniform.

What the-

"You look better with no pants on, Major."

After concluding his appreciative examination, he walks away.

I blink.

Several times.

"What's _he_ doing here?"

"Who?"

His poker face is impressive, but his bluffing skills are anything but.

"_Raikov_."

He shrugs, executing his favorite faux-normality drill again.

"He was in the area. We needed all the help we could get."

I'm suddenly assaulted by an ambivalent feeling of panic.

He glares down on me impassively.

"Your eye is twitching," he points out after a while.

"You didn't use the same persuasion methods on him, did you?"

His brow assumes its mock-naive position.

"Jealous?"

Dirty, filthy, skanky_ son of a bitch._

"No. Just worried you might have caught something."

He smiles in a distinctly loathsome manner.

"Well, you can stop worrying."

The relief is almost astounding, but I try to keep it from taking over my next extraction of breath.

"So how did you get him to join? Shoved him into a locker again?"

"Do I look like a bully to you?"

"Do I even need to answer that?"

He purses his lips, but doesn't pursue that line of argument.

"I gave him permission to run around naked if he ever felt like it."

A nudist army.

Novel concept.

In this state of near-perfect clarity, I decide it could work.

Wait.

How much blood _did _I lose?

That issue is lost as soon as I catch a glimpse of _another_ familiar thing in the distance.

Cleavage.

Reality-defying cleavage.

"Was that _EVA_?"

His face reveals nothing.

He places the palm of his hand over my forehead in apparent concern.

"You're hallucinating. Must be the blood loss."

Somehow I doubt even blood loss would be sufficient to invite me to a reunion straight from hell.

"You're lying."

"And suffering from paranoia. You probably just need to sleep it off."

Raikov. EVA. Ninjas.

Maybe he has a point.

An odd feeling assumes an amorphous shape in my subconscious.

I look over his shoulder.

There's a man floating in mid-air. Smiling.

Sure. Why not?

Only one thing strikes me as curious.

"Why is he weeping blood?"

For once, Snake looks genuinely taken aback.

"What?"

Never mind.

The hovering man holds up a sign.

'Don't worry. Be happy.'

As he begins to fade away, I start to think that maybe that's not such a bad idea.

Before he's swallowed by thin air, the sign changes.

'P.S. I love you.'

Here's my answer.

"I trust the world to never make any sense."

And with that thought, I lose the last thread connecting me to reality.

It's probably for the best.

Reality is overrated.


	7. Misery Is a Cold Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- VI -  
> **

**\- VI -  
**

**Misery Is a Cold Gun**

There are a precious few things I hate more than feeling useless.

Mud on a new uniform. Hats with a tendency to go stray. Jammed guns. Infected wounds. Roasted treefrogs.

Campbell.

These are a few of my least favorite things.

But there's absolutely _nothing _I hate more than feeling useless _and_ bored out of my mind.

By now, the pain has receded to an insistent, dull ache.

Dull being the bottom line.

I miss the real pain.

At least it was good focus point.

Unlike this ceiling.

It's a sad fact to admit, but I'd take the truck over this any day.

I haven't shaved in a few days now. Couldn't find the required energy. Didn't feel the need or desire to.

I can't even begin to approach Snake's level of fuzz, but I'm still feeling properly disheveled.

Not a state I enjoy.

But boredom breeds entropy, and there's no room for self-grooming when your very existence is slow deteriorating into bed decoration.

_Stinking_ bed decoration.

I smell no better than Snake's traditional food supply.

A feat I wouldn't have considered possible until today.

Sleep arrives in creeping, unforgiving surges, washing over and crushing me with its weight until I have no choice but to submit.

I don't feel any more rested upon awakening. It's worse, if anything.

Now I know why I never sleep more than a few hours at a time. It's a life-sucking quicksand trap.

Numbness keeps spreading through me like a deadly plague, turning even the wistful idea of combat unbearably remote.

I'm not usually prone to an overactive imagination, but the severe lack of mental and physical stimulation brings out images of me starting to lay roots over and across the bed, slowly becoming overgrown with leaves and moss, until the term 'plant' becomes more than a simplistic play on words.

Cheerful thought.

A state like this can make you question the very purpose of your existence.

There's no objectivity behind this, of course. Just lethargic, ugly, swamped up emotion.

And I've always prided myself on the ability to eliminate emotion from the equation entirely.

Except, I've always had _something_ to counter it with.

A drive, an assignment, an action.

Right now, I can't even begin to establish a clear trail of thought.

There's something distinctly oxymoronic about having healthcare shoved down your throat.

Okay. Maybe without the 'oxy' part.

The only thing still right in the world is my revolver. Loyal to a fault. Infinitely understanding. Its soothing chill is the only link that's yet to be broken. The only being I can truly count on.

There's a restless energy to it.

It misses the battle no less than I do.

All I can offer it in this lackluster limbo prison is a continuous and far-from-impressive acrobatic performance

Spin. Flip. Catch.

Repeat.

The captivating rhythm is broken by Para-Medic, stopping by for her routine visit - checking for returning infection, making sure I haven't fully transformed into a tree, or something equally exciting.

There's just one thing I'm interested in hearing from her.

"When can I get back in the field?"

She regards me with a mildly chiding expression, likely perfected over years of pretending to be an authority figure.

Goddamn doctors.

"Didn't you ask me that an hour ago?"

That's clearly beside the point.

I make a slight alternation to the question.

"Am I dying?"

It'd be good to know, if I was.

This isn't exactly the death I imagined for myself.

I've always pictured it brighter. Larger. With more explosions in the background.

But this would do.

As she holds me under her quizzical gaze for a while, her eyes hiding a well-bred class of amusement – kept maliciously out of reach, but there nonetheless.

Comical as death often is, I fail to locate the source of humor in this particular situation.

She finally responds with an angular headshake.

"No, of course not. Not even in the neighborhood, actually."

This is simultaneously a bit of a disappointment, dramatically speaking, and a minimal upside to the situation, realistically speaking.

The main issue remains unsettled, though.

"Then I should be out there."

"Limping on enemy soldiers?"

"Better than nothing."

"I'm afraid that's not our policy."

"Then adjust your _policy_."

"Just for your sake?"

Seems like a reasonable enough request.

"Yes."

Buying spare time by placing her bag on a chair by the bed and digging through it in search of the medical kit, she eventually turns to me, her expression resembling the type to be traditionally accompanied by a microscope, or at least a magnifying glass.

"You have an interesting worldview."

Whatever that's supposed to imply, I don't like it.

But, considering the number of disagreeable aspects to the current state of affairs, I feel safe to disregard it.

She still hasn't answered me.

"Well?"

She continues to arrange her equipment, regarding me with a raised brow.

"I didn't think I'd meet someone more stubborn than Jack, but you make a pretty decent candidate."

That's sentiment is rather flattering, in a way.

"Is that a no?"

"That's a no," she confirms without even a hint of apology.

So much for reason.

She's not much good for me, then.

I redirect my gaze to the ceiling. At least I have some understanding with it.

A mutual boredom treaty.

Spin. Flip. Catch.

"Please put down the gun."

The inflection would be the exact same if she was asking a child to clean the room, or do the dishes.

I turn back to her, catching an annoyingly polite, yet clearly disapproving frown sent to accompany the request.

All she's really missing is a magical parrot umbrella.

Spin. Flip. Catch.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No." The answer is delivered too breezily and casually to be a cover-up. Damn. "I'd just rather you didn't accidentally shoot yourself while I change your bandages. It wouldn't really make my job easier."

"I don't _accidentally_ shoot anything."

"I'm sure you know that pain can affect motor function. Among other things."

A cold, undefined sensation forms an unpleasant pressure in the back of my mind before I realize she's simply making a general statement, with no subtext or hidden meanings.

Deciding that this isn't a battle worth fighting, I pull myself up to a position that clumsily fuses sitting and lying down, placing the revolver on the chair.

She nods a silent gratitude, then begins to unwrap the bandage, soon revealing the injured area, which is now enjoying a red, agitated visage.

A few moments into her inspection, she looks up and awards me with a patiently accusing glance.

"Did you scratch it?"

Itches are meant to be scratched, no matter how many legends doctors try to invent to contradict it.

"No."

"Usually, lying is only good when it accomplishes a goal."

True. Goal orientation is crucial in the art of subterfuge.

"It's a good thing I'm not lying, then."

Consistency even more so.

"Okay."

In matches of this sort, overly brief answers aren't a very positive sign.

Ill omen is more like it.

It strongly implies your opponent has an ace up his sleeve.

She pays a visit to the medical kit, taking out a harmless looking ointment tube.

Which probably means it contains hazardous radioactive materials.

"I need to apply some antibiotics," she relays, the side of her mouth threatening to tilt ever-so-slightly, but remaining in an earnest, business-like line. "This'll sting more if you scratched it. I could look for something more mellow…"

Oh, _please_.

This brand of crude tactic only works on toddlers.

Very stupid ones.

"You're bluffing," I inform her, in case she wasn't entirely aware of it.

She gives a weightless, noncommittal smile.

"Maybe."

Damn.

She's good.

But she's still bluffing.

I refuse to revise my statement, waiting for her to do her worst.

It turns out to be pretty high on the bad scale.

As the substance encounters my skin, I find myself releasing a hiss that breaks at the center, bearing the likeness of a fractured growl.

The damn thing has the same effect a winning combination of salt, pepper and vodka would.

I have bite hard on my lower lip to keep from making further humiliating sounds.

_Fuck_.

When the sting mellows, I decide to provide her with a dash of constructive criticism.

"You sadistic _bitch_."

She holds my gaze evenly.

"I deal with pain every day; it's the essence of being a doctor. I don't enjoy inflicting it."

If that's not elaborate evasion, I don't know what is.

"Like _hell_ you don't."

It's a well-known fact that doctors are only one step away from dentists on the abuse chain.

Much higher than Volgin could've ever hoped to accomplish, that's for sure.

She doesn't argue further, attending to the re-bandaging of the wound instead.

"Just don't scratch it again, okay? You're slowing down the healing process that way."

"I didn't-"

She narrows her eyes.

I can almost see the malicious ointment-involving plans assuming corporeal form.

I nod.

Her face brightens up, shedding the Demon Nurse demeanor.

"Oh, and I brought you something."

She leads another expedition into that bag of hers, probably looking for more patient-torment devices. She must have a tiny inquisition chamber stashed up in there.

The final product doesn't meet expectations, turning out to be an overly colorful book she holds up for display.

'The Little Prince'.

She must be joking.

"This is a _children's_ book."

"No, it isn't. It's special."

'Special'. This must be one of those American codewords that stand for nothing at all.

"You should give it to Raikov, then. He appreciates 'special' things."

"Raikov?" she repeats musingly. "That's the handsome one, right? I think he's on a mission."

Talk about a low blow.

And, on top of everything, I now need to satisfy a morbid curiosity.

"Naked?"

She frowns contemplatively.

"Not that I know of."

The frown deepens.

"Maybe artistically nude."

I feel sick.

Well, sick_er_, technically.

Her waving the book in my face isn't helping, either.

"Anyway, if you don't want it, this is the alternative."

She consults with the bag again, this time emerging with a book large enough to effectively bash someone's head in with.

An impressively revolting picture of an equally ugly bird adorns the cover, with large, intimidation-bent letters towering above it.

'Encyclopedia of Pigeon Breeds'.

My brain emits an aggrieved, dejected groan, which I mirror in turn.

Doesn't enjoy inflicting pain.

Of course not.

Why would anyone think _that_?

After taking a moment to consider my very limited options, I snatch the lesser of two evils from her hand, eliciting a small smile from her.

"Wise choice."

Wisdom and desperation aren't interchangeable, as far as I know.

I glare at the sinister pigeon book, hoping to cause a spontaneous combustion.

No luck.

"Just get that… thing away from me."

"Pigeons are highly underrated, really. They're actually fascinating creatures, if you reach beyond the plain exterior. There are more than two hundred and sixty pigeon species around the world. Their biological makeup is-"

I let my face convey just how fascinating I find the subject to be.

And how stomach turning.

She sighs.

"Fine."

The pigeon book returns to whatever deep region of Hell it came from, to my extensive relief.

"I need to go," she lets me know, mistakenly believing that I actually care.

Before departing in search for more appealing methods of violating the Hippocratic Oath, she glances back at me.

"Give it a try. I think you'll like it."

And she makes her exit, leaving no room to voice an intense and sincere disagreement.

Alone at last.

To say nothing of the ceiling.

Not that there's much to be said.

The response would be largely underwhelming.

Ceilings are a great deal less engaging companions than, say, grounds.

I retrieve the banished gun, sending it on a supportive spin around my finger.

The book rests on the chair. Lurking. Waiting. Playing a relentless battle of wills with me.

For the majority of the evening, I try to ignore its existence altogether, painting elaborate mental pictures on the ceiling and conducting elaborate revolver choreography lessons.

Eventually, sadly predictably, boredom triumphs over pride.

I shoot a thorough glance to all the potential exit points in the room, making sure there's no possibility of surveillance, and pick it up.

When the first page makes me grin, I realize the infection must have spread to my brain.

It was only a matter of time.

And it's all Snake's fault.

It's too late to fight it, so I keep reading.

I make my way halfway through before my vision starts to turn murky.

I fall asleep with the book covering my face, imagining Snake attempting to swallow an elephant whole.

And succeeding, of course.

Luckily, no dreams choose to invade my loosened subconscious.

The awakening is appropriately rude, triggered by an eruption of thunder of the kind that heralds a massive storm.

The sound of the murderous rain that follows accents my bad case of uniform deficiency.

If Volgin ever felt like coming back to life to check on his beloved artistically nude Ivanushka, he'd choose this weather for his grandiose rebirth.

Before the idea is fully processed in all of its unsettling glory, footsteps begin to echo menacingly in the hallway, mimicking the quality of a poorly staged horror movie.

I attempt to silence the rapidly welling ominous sensation.

It _can't_ be him.

Thunder roars again.

Can it?

I rapidly discard of the incriminating book, grabbing the gun and aiming it steadily at the doorframe.

The make-believe tension is disappointingly evaporated as the entering silhouette is revealed to be distinctly un-Volgin-like, failing to even approach the two meter mark, and acutely lacking in electricity.

Para-Medic again.

Wetter this time around. A recent victim of the rain.

Good. Maybe she'll catch a cold, then get a taste of how it's like to be at the mercy of fiendish doctors herself, for once.

"Expecting someone?"

I sigh, lowering the gun.

"No."

Several moments go wasted, and since she fails to initiate a medieval medical procedure or threaten me in any way, I decide to kick-start the inevitable conversation myself.

"What?"

"Nothing. Injury season is over, and I thought you might like some company."

She wants to socialize.

_Bond. _

God.

What have I done to deserve this?

"You thought wrong."

She refuses to take the hint, settling on the chair beside me uninvited. She does that quizzical staring maneuver before responding.

"Why are you being so hostile? We're not the enemy."

I snort before making the necessary correction.

"Now."

She tilts her head sideways, not entirely there yet.

"What?"

"You're not the enemy _now_."

"Isn't that good enough?"

It's no use explaining.

I might as well be trying to convey advance theories in tactical warfare to a five-year-old. Or a pacifist.

"You don't get it."

In fact, none of them does, except Snake.

And even he doesn't truly understand.

Can't blame him, though. It's hard to see the whole picture when you're only handed out a few displaced puzzle pieces, usually from different puzzle sets altogether.

But apparently, she insists on not letting this go.

And _I'm _the stubborn one.

"I get it. I'm just not sure that's the real problem."

"There is no _problem_."

A problem implies a potential solution.

_This_ is just how things are.

Mountain pushing is good for exercise, but not much beyond that.

Some people need to learn that the hard way.

Her eyes lose focus for a moment, going on a trip to that distant cerebral region only the scientifically afflicted have access to. She regains it quickly, tapping a finger over her knee.

"Alright," she compromises, succeeding in keeping the silence pact up for an entirety of three seconds before relapsing. "You know, there's a theory that fundamental trust issues can stem from-"

She must hold the notion I'm an alien life form to be dissected and poked at.

And if there's one thing I dislike more than doctors, it's psychiatrists.

Dulled as my overall condition is, I manage to sharpen my voice to razor quality as I intercept her little 'theoretical' lecture.

"Don't analyze me."

"I wasn't," the defensiveness in her tone is tragically short-lived, soon to be taken over by a low-key teasing. "Sometimes a revolver is just a revolver."

I feel my lip quirking against my will and better judgment.

"No," I slide my thumb over the flawless metal as I guide the gun into an effortless twirl, letting it speak for itself. "It's never _just_ that."

She mirrors my smirk with a half-smile of her own, spicing it with a touch of ambiguity.

"I'll take your word for it."

Delivering closure to that particular subject, she turns her infinitely spanning attention to the book, lifting it to conduct a thorough examination - maybe checking for fingerprints - then throwing a naively wondering look in my direction.

"How do you like it?"

She doesn't honestly expect me to give a straight answer.

Foolishly revealing a weakness to an opponent is an unforgivable offence.

"It's weird."

I feel like I have to add something to express a clearer distaste.

"And idiotic."

Still not quite enough.

"And makes less sense than Raikov."

There.

That should do it.

She shrugs.

"Oh. Okay then."

This is a bad sign.

She's obviously up to something.

And not a highly sophisticated something, as it turns out. Mostly, it involves the journey of the book towards her bag, without so much as an attempt at subtlety.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm… taking it back."

"Why?"

She regards the question with both eyebrows raised, putting on a thick veil of misunderstanding innocence.

Like most poor disguises, it doesn't quite fit.

"I thought you didn't like it."

Medics aren't supposed to be this sneaky.

"I never said that."

"So you_ do_ like it."

For a person of her size, she's incredibly efficient at generating aggravation.

It's almost awe-inspiring.

I force myself to implement some much-needed damage control.

"I didn't say _that_, either."

The book makes an overdue return to its base position, but not without drawing an antagonistically satisfied expression from her.

Before I can mentally crown her as a manifestation of pure evil, her face turns pleasantly sympathetic.

This is disorienting.

"I can get you some more books, if you want. Bet it gets pretty boring here, alone."

I doubt the elimination of the alone factor would do much for boredom relief, but the sentiment in itself is accurate enough.

However, more pigeon education from her is the last thing I want.

"I'm not much of a book person."

Heart-breaking and soul-baring a confession as that is.

"That makes sense," she decides out-loud. "Written material can rarely live up to the requirements of people in need of high activity levels. Doesn't provide enough kinetic energy, I suppose."

I run a brief translation of the statement, psychobabble to human.

"I'm not hyperactive."

"I never said that," she serves as a belated echo. "So what about movies?"

"What about them?"

"Do you like them?"

I lead my shoulders into a vastly indifferent shrug.

"Some are alright. Most aren't."

"I've seen a few Soviet movies," she informs eagerly, as if this should pique my interest in some way. "Like, hmm," her nose scrunches a bit in concentration, "The Diamond Arm. You know that one?"

Who doesn't?

"The boys worship it." The confused expression on her end indicates that the statement merits an explanation. It turns out to be an oddly awkward one, for no visible reason. "My unit."

She nods, retrieving the information and taking it into rapid processing and analysis.

"And?"

Right. She doesn't know how a chain of command is _really_ supposed to work.

"That means I'm supposed to hate it by definition."

"Do you?"

The concept of infinity suddenly becomes crystal clear. It's based on her question supply.

"Everybody else believes I do, so it must be true."

There are a lot of relative truths built around this principle.

They happen to be the ones I deal with the most.

Sometimes, it makes you wonder if absolute ones even exist.

Not that anyone would believe in them, if they did.

Irony is a much more powerful force than truth.

Ill-fitting, overly-abstract philosophical concepts drift away as she speaks up again, nosiness set to maximum.

"Do you miss them?"

Back to psych-land, looks like.

"Who?"

"Your unit."

I think I liked her better when she was assaulting me with her aggressive medication.

"Of course not. Why would I?"

"I just thought maybe – never mind," she waves the subject away with a literal sway of her hand, resetting the unfortunate turn of the conversation. "Do you only get to see Soviet movies?"

"Not only, but I haven't seen a foreign movie in a while."

Four years, to be exact.

Not since my last debriefing tour to America.

Has it really been that long?

"What was the last one you saw?"

"For a Few Dollars More."

She probably has no idea what that is. Must be a fan of those musical atrocities. Or the sickeningly romantic movies tailored specifically for the female crowd. And Raikov.

The gleam of excited recognition in her eyes contradicts that notion.

Interesting.

"It's good, isn't it?"

"_Good_? It's much more than _good_."

She leans backwards, briefly lacking in verbal matter.

Very briefly.

"I'm not sure I've known anybody who attaches this much scorn to the word 'good'."

She should try 'pretty good'.

"You don't call a masterpiece 'good'. It's like calling the Sistine Chapel 'pretty'. It's an insult by elimination."

"That's an interesting term," she acknowledges with an acute tilt of the head. "I tend to stick to insults by definition, mostly. Or insults by being smarter than the person you're insulting, and therefore being the only one getting it," she takes a millisecond pause, resupplying on oxygen and babble material, "which slightly defeats the purpose, but is still pretty satisfying."

The verbal labyrinth is surprisingly easy to follow, mainly because this time, I know exactly what she's talking about.

The infamous Volgin-insult.

Potentially applied to most superior officers, since the universal consensus states that IQ plummets in direct relation to elevating rank.

"Those are fun," I admit, stifling the automatic and healthy reluctance to agree with anything she says.

This alerts me to the fact that this conversation has gone on for a considerable amount of time already.

And it doesn't bother me nearly as much as it ought to.

She doesn't go away, and I can't summon up the will to chase her off.

Maybe talking a patient's ear off is part of her therapeutic strategy.

Though somehow, I suspect that's not the case.

Nevertheless, I arrive to the upsetting conclusion that she's not a terrible conversation partner.

That is, when she doesn't ask too many questions, doesn't attempt improvised psychoanalysis, and doesn't launch into lectures about eco-systems and other such despicable things.

This doesn't leave much, admittedly.

As a rule, movies tend to make a fairly safe topic. An oddly engaging one, even.

She seems to favor the kind that's ripe with plastic monsters, green blood and lens magnified ants, but nobody's perfect.

She also prefers Wayne to Eastwood, which, accounting for taste or not, is practically inexplicable.

_Americans._

How can a nation this clueless expect to survive?

She's mostly sound-minded about everything else, though.

After exhausting most things western or Godzilla related, we begin to discuss directors.

When we reach Hitchcock, I make a convincing argument about how that Birds movie was likely inspired by her favorite pigeon atrocity.

She makes a face, but doesn't come up with anything to counter that.

I consider it the high point of the evening.

Eventually she departs to engage in matters that actually bear some importance, and after suppressing the bitterness associated with my complete lack of activity, I'm forced to resort to the book.

I keep wondering whether she spiked it with sleeping gas, because the drowsiness it inflicts is hard to explain otherwise.

I manage to get through a few pages before being subdued by the sleep wave.

An intrusive sound penetrates the walls of my hibernating mind.

"What's new, pussycat?"

I crack my eyes open, attempting to locate the source of the auditory and existential disturbance.

The tech specialist.

I seek a name to attach to the target.

I finally reach it.

SIGINT.

Though insolent-bastard-in-urgent-need-of-a-decorative-headshot would work just as well.

"_What_ did you say?"

He raises his arms, mimicking a gesture of surrender.

The smile attached to it reduces the believability.

"Relax, man. Just kiddin' around."

My trigger finger feels peculiarly itchy. More so than usual, even.

Chain of command.

Chain of command.

I _hate_ the chain of command.

That's one itch I won't be able to scratch anytime soon.

It's more than ointment maltreatment I'd be risking if I did.

Maybe I can get some useful information out of him, at least.

"Where's Snake?"

"Doing his thing. There's a guy with pins attached to his head, should keep him busy for a while."

"Very funny."

"No, seriously."

They really must think I'm a child, to be feeding me these fabricated anecdotes.

"Right."

He folds his arms, giving me a dubious look.

"Lemme get this straight - you served under a guy with an electrical charge of ten million volt, and you think a head full of pins is weird?"

Alright.

He wins this one.

It won't happen again.

"So," he declares pointlessly. "Got you a little something."

What is it with those damn Americans and their get-well-present fetish?

This is annoying in a manner difficult to pinpoint.

But it's most definitely _annoying_.

That feeling is evaporated without a trace, however, once I catch a glimpse of the object he carts in.

It's an actual movie projector.

Or a very convincing imitation of one, at the very least.

My body reacts before I do, springing into a strained sitting position.

"Where did you get that?"

"Liberated it from our pal Gene's base," he gives the salvaged souvenir a friendly pat. "Nice, huh?"

"Does it work?"

"_Work_? It does much more than work, my man. Super 8mm, two tracks, even got sound," he instigates a sweeping overview of technical details of varying degrees of importance, ranging from minor to nonexistent to anti-matter. The only way he could get me to care about any of it would involve that diabolical pigeon book as a counter-measure. I tune back in when it seems like he's nearing a finish. "So cutting edge you can use it as a guillotine. This baby is a thing of sheer beauty."

It looks fairly ugly to me. A misshapen box with a couple of odd wheels attached to it. No redeeming aesthetic value whatsoever.

But advanced technology has an innate hideousness to it. It's as if it's a necessary part of its evolution.

The Shagohod was a good example.

A giant nuclear beetle with bad bulldozer habits.

And still, Metal Gear overshadows it by several notches, in terms of physical repulsiveness.

Maybe the next generation of weaponry will be designed to kill on sight, triggering brain aneurysms with its sheer ugliness.

And yet, the worse it looks, the more interesting things it can do.

"You know how to operate it?"

"What do you think?"

There's a rhetorical edge to the question, as well as a taste of vast self-confidence that I'm not entirely unfamiliar with.

He reaches into his coat pocket, taking out a strange black box and holding it demonstratively between thumb and forefinger.

"What's that?"

"Film cartridge. Para-Medic said you might like it."

Oh, terrific.

A pigeon movie.

I can't believe it.

Curiosity wins over preservation instinct in a matter of seconds.

"So what is it?"

"She actually wanted it to be a surprise." After receiving a faceful of my opinion regarding this development, he frowns, "Don't like surprises?"

"Not as long as I don't know about them in advance."

He stalls by balancing the cartridge on the tip of his finger, probably in fear of Para-Medic's wrath, but eventually hands out an answer.

"It's called The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."

I close my mouth as soon as I notice that it's gaping open.

"Heard about it?"

I nod.

"So, you wanna watch it or-"

I slice off the completely redundant question in mid-conception.

"_Yes._"

He plays with the projector, performing whatever technical tweaking these things require.

Or pretending to be doing something to justify his existence.

At any rate, it's a torturously long routine.

At last, he finishes, and the movie begins to play.

The image is stretched on the wall in a smeared, not quire steady, manner. The sounds are accompanied by an undertone of static. But true beauty can't be obscured by minor interruptions.

And this goes beyond true beauty.

This is the very definition of perfection.

Every fiber of my mind and body is attuned to the picture on the wall.

When the credits start to roll, I feel like I've just been deprived of an essential body part.

SIGINT doesn't appear as heavily affected, but his reaction is hardly a focal point of interest for me right now.

"What did you think?" he questions.

'Think' falsely implies a state of coherency; the kind that no living, breathing man should have the capacity to maintain after watching this.

"Put it on again."

He flashes a wide grin.

"I take it that's a positive reaction."

"I don't _care _how you take it. Put it on."

"Okay, okay."

He performs his main function, and the film plays again.

And nothing else matters in the world.

Until it's over.

"Again."

When no response comes, I turn to him, checking for life signs.

He's slumped in the chair, head buried thoroughly in his hands.

Apparently, movie watching has become an amazing feat of endurance.

I give him a rough nudge on the shoulder.

He straightens up, shooting me an alarmed glare.

Not dead, then.

"What's the matter?"

I point to the projector meaningfully.

"You know, you should probably get some rest, with that wound-"

"I'm fine."

He gives his watch a tactful, excuse-seeking glance.

"Look, I gotta be somewhere-"

"Then show me how to play it."

He does, with obvious reluctance. Must be the equivalent of a magician revealing his tricks.

"You'll ruin the film if you keep playing it all the time."

I take the liberty of regarding this as a cautionary tale of the 'keep making that expression and your face will be stuck like that forever' variety.

On his way out, I hear him muttering something about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Everybody is a shrink here.

Three viewings later, I realize my eyes are quietly trying to explode inside my head.

Maybe I should take a short break.

My head hits the pillow like a discarded bullet shell, and temporary death arrives without a warning.

When I wake up, the sun is already out, shooting blinding, invasive rays through the window glass.

The place where the projector stood is vacant.

There's a ransom note on the chair, informing me that the projector was urgently needed elsewhere.

The where isn't stated, making a rescue mission out of the question.

Retaliation, of course, is a requirement, but it'll have to be postponed until I have the means to employ it.

In the meanwhile, I'm left with no choice but pick the only activity available.

I finish the book.

After putting it down, it feels like something is scratching me on the inside.

I've been in this bed for too damn long.

It comes with a void sensation, as if I'm surrounded by vacuum.

Or, alternatively, I'm the one composed of vacuum.

I can't say which possibility is more enticing.

Probably the first one, since the next person to fill the doorframe is one I'd love to see enjoying a vacuum bath.

Campbell.

"Hey."

I make a point of not acknowledging his presence.

He mistakenly takes this for an invitation, entering the room and leaning against the wall right next to the door, maybe to ensure he has an accessible escape route in case I feel like warming up my revolver on him. His hands are placed suspiciously behind his back, and I keep a close watch to see if any concealed weapons decide to show up.

This unfortunately undermines my earlier attempt to ignore him altogether.

A stare-down ensues, but instead of the desired mutual gun drawing, he speaks.

"How's your jaw?"

The depth of his concern is touching.

"Great. How's your nose?"

The bandage is gone, to my disappointment.

And it's hard to tell if the shape has changed at all, considering the original.

"Never better. How's your ego?"

"Why would there be anything wrong with my ego?"

"Good question," he gives a lazy smirk, directing his gaze to my wounded leg. "You know, I think this is called karma."

"Funny. I thought it looked more like a gunshot wound."

He forms an expression that implies contemplation, but I choose to believe that since this is Campbell, it probably involves a disrupted bodily function of some sort.

"What do you want?"

He doesn't answer straight away.

Meaning he's not overly eager to say whatever it is he's planning to say.

"He trusts you."

It never really strikes me until it's worded.

It's true, though.

He probably does.

This puts me on an instant defensive, even though his tone is straightforward, and not particularly confrontational.

"I never asked him to."

He regards me with a bland look.

"It's not the sort of thing you ask for, and you know it."

I smirk, not willing to give him the satisfaction of getting to me.

"So you don't trust me."

He doesn't take too long thinking about it.

"No."

"Then you're not a complete idiot."

"Gee, thanks."

He should be grateful. This is the biggest compliment he'll likely ever get from me.

We're back in stare-down zone, and he's the one to ruin it, again.

"If you betray him, I'll kill you."

The banality of the threat fails to conceal the fact that he's being curiously possessive for somebody who's only known him for a few months.

Not that I have a problem with competition.

It keeps things interesting.

"You're forgetting one very basic thing."

"What's that?"

"You don't have what it takes to kill me."

He responds by removing one hand from behind his back, bringing a beer can to view.

"I don't really think that'd cut it."

"You don't know what I can do with a beer can."

With that, he tosses it over.

I catch it to keep it from having an intimate encounter with my forehead.

"I don't-"

Oh, what the hell.

It's an odd way of declaring a ceasefire, but Campbell has an odd way for everything.

I don't really have anything to lose, and it's not like I have something better to do.

He covers the distance between the wall and the bed unhurriedly, and, with blatant disregard to the existence of the chair, invades the side of the bed instead.

I consider pushing him off, but decide he's just not worth the trouble.

The unpleasant liquid is consumed in silence, which is eventually and predictably broken by him.

"I don't understand you."

"Of course you don't. Understanding requires actual brainpower."

The alcohol helps him sidestep my very logical explanation entirely.

"No. I mean, I thought I did, but…"

He drifts off, going away to that fairy tale land where pigs fly, Raikovs find themselves nice girls named Molly, Sue or Rose, and Campbells have minds capable of genuine thought.

It's a little sad, really.

He may not get me, but I understand him perfectly.

A dumbly faithful hound, fiercely protective of his newfound master.

A pack animal.

No wonder he and I can't get along.

Packs only slow me down.

The strange vacuum-like sensation returns, but this time, I have a solution for it.

"Got anything stronger?"

He grins, digging into his pants pocket and emerging with a steel flask.

So Campbell does have his uses.

Stranger revelations have been made, but I can't recall one that took me by more surprise.

The flask takes the whole of three minutes to be completely drained.

When I start to laugh at Campbell's jokes, I realize that the alcohol is every bit as dangerous as I've always believed it to be.

I just can't seem to bring myself to care.

Trying to teach him a Russian song about rabbits turns out to be a surprisingly successful endeavor.

I'm not so sure the same can be said about the next song.

I make a note to plan an excruciatingly painful death for SIGINT as soon as my brain regains some form of function.

Then, the singing takes a turn to the improvisational - an even more dangerous avenue in our state.

He starts it, though it's not much of a comfort.

"My Big Boss is over the ocean-"

I pitch in, determined not to let him get all the glory.

"My Big Boss is over the sea-"

The grand finale is executed in an earsplitting duet.

"Bring back, oh bring back, oh bring back my Big Boss to me!"

Not long after this, and hopefully before we declare everlasting devotion to one another, reality's emergency procedure belatedly kicks in, enforcing an all-encompassing, blissful blackout.

The disjointed singing keeps echoing in my head like a faded lullaby.

I'm awakened as my nostrils detect a faint smell of blood filling the surrounding air. It's not a threat, but a familiar, comfortable scent.

I try to separate the cloudy vapor spread thickly over my field of vision, with limited success.

It's enough to construct a partial contour of his face.

Snake.

"Missed me?"

I murmur a muted litany that he'll hopefully interpret as a firm negative.

"Glad to hear it," he acknowledges.

"Catch your pinhead?"

"Yeah."

"Mhmmf," turns out to be the most eloquent commentary I can muster up.

"I knew you could play nice."

The hell is he talking about?

I try to move my head in the direction he's looking at, only managing to budge it an inch or so.

It's enough to see what he's referring to, unfortunately.

Apparently I've decided at some point that Campbell's shoulder isn't a half-bad pillow.

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

It _is_ unusually soft, though.

And moving isn't an appealing option at the moment.

Alcohol provider, pillow.

What next?

"You make a cute couple."

I search for a retort amidst a haze of drowsiness and alcohol.

I need something sharp.

Something clever.

"Fuck you."

A slow smirk makes an appearance on his face.

"Maybe later." He runs his hand through my hair, ruffling it up. It's the equivalent of scratching behind the ear, but I'm unable to find the energy to protest. "Go back to sleep."

I can't really argue with that.

Chain of command and all.

"Oh, and before I forget…"

He makes a movement I can't entirely trace, but it involves my head in some manner.

There's now a familiar weight on it.

My hat.

With it comes a sense of calm I've been missing for a while now.

Everything is back where it belongs.

And all is right with the world.

"Nice whiskers, by the way."

…Huh?

Maybe the world just isn't meant to be right.

No sense made. Mission accomplished.

He must be proud of himself.

And I thought _I_ was the one with alcohol blocking up his system.

Maybe he, the pinhead and the ninja had a special little party of their own.

Wouldn't surprise me in the least.

When his outline diminishes, I let the smog resettle, welcoming sleep for once.

Tomorrow will come soon enough.

And I have the hangover of a lifetime to look forward to.

A lot of denial to cook up for self preservation purposes, too.

But at least I won't have to worry about magically appearing hats, like Campbell will.

I relocate the hat from my head to his, and follow through on the sleep order.


	8. Midnight Cowboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- VII - **

**\- VII - **

**Midnight Cowboy **

"Can I kill him?"

"No."

"You said you'll let me."

"I said I _might_."

"I'll be quiet. No one will know."

He slowly leans back on his elbows, expressionlessly generating a beam of disbelief before delivering the overly predictable response.

"No."

Desperation causes me to employ one of the words I despise the most.

"_Please._"

"No."

"A little."

"No." A pause. "What, exactly, _is_ 'kill a little'?"

Figures.

Not an ounce of creativity.

I take several steps in a highly indistinct direction, attempting to clear my mind sufficiently to produce an answer.

The direction reverses a few times, and no clarity arrives.

...What _does_ it mean?

"Temporarily," I improvise, wisely keeping the question mark out of my reply.

"Huh," he confirms. This, apparently, does makes sense to him. "Like with death pills?"

"What _death pills_?"

"Pills you take to die temporarily," his tone impolitely suggests that this is, in fact, completely obvious.

Setting my jaw and turning towards him, I carefully rephrase the question, this time using my eyes only.

He proceeds to watch me with the same breed of inappropriate idleness.

"I have a couple."

"What do you need these death pills for?" I throw my arms apart, expelling only a small portion of irritated energy, "Just in case you got a strong suicidal urge during a mission and deciding slitting your wrists with that knife of yours feels a bit too melodramatic?"

Honestly, I can think of a hundred better ways of guaranteeing death for yourself, especially in an environment as ideal as a battlefield.

Jumping in front of a nuclear tank.

Creative cliff diving.

Impersonating the personal pet of a giant, electrically charged madman.

Okay. Maybe he does need those pills.

A light crease manifests on his forehead as he runs over a mental checklist of his own.

"I'm not sure, really," he concedes finally. "But they taste okay."

I stop in my tracks, shutting my eyes and hopefully a sizeable part of my consciousness along with them.

How can he accuse me of an oral fixation when he still categorizes the world by taste?

Once I get over that, at least for the time being, I quickly refocus on my goal.

"So-"

"No." What else? " Roy isn't prone to spontaneous resurrections, as far as I know."

Good.

One less thing to worry about.

"Fine. How about a kneecap?"

"No."

"Just one. It can't possibly kill him."

Unless his brain is actually located there.

Not entirely out of the question.

"No."

This is useless.

His lexicon, which isn't by any means scrabble-worthy under normal circumstances, is clearly limited to one word at the moment.

"You're being unreasonable."

He sighs mournfully.

"Life isn't fair."

And some people work extra-hard to keep it that way.

"Stop sulking. At least you'll be back juggling guns in people's faces in a day or two. You'll get more than enough chances to vent."

Now that's an idea I can appreciate.

As I open my mouth to start on a fresh appeal, he lazily intercepts it.

"And no, I'm not putting you on the same team with him."

God damn it.

When did he acquire mind-reading powers?

"But he-" no follow-up is forthcoming. "He-" another unbreakable speech-block forms. It's just too embarrassing to word out. "Ugh!"

Whiskers.

Fucking _whiskers_.

My face still stings from the excessive amount of soap that was required to erase the incriminating traces left by the marker pen.

This can't go unpunished.

"Stop pacing and get your ass over here."

But that may have to wait.

"Why? Do you have any plans for it?"

"Maybe."

I adapt a hands-on-hips posture, throwing in a sneer in the mix.

"Maybe isn't good enough."

In the dark, his eye resembles a fiery coal, fierce in a purely animal-like manner. An all-devouring entity focused entirely on me.

Most people would find this a position of unease, anxiousness or fear.

It's only healthy. Prey needs to know its place, if it hopes to survive another day.

For me, it's a brand of compliment.

Not to mention one hell of a turn-on.

His smile, building up at a crawling pace, does little to break the overall impression.

"It'll have to do."

Like most constraints, chains of command are only effective as long as they follow a strict stick and carrot routine.

And this is far too vague to be either.

I keep my mobile position, matching his gaze unflinchingly.

"Besides, you look kind of funny prancing around naked."

Funny?

_Prancing? _

This exhibition of unforgivable obnoxiousness prompts me to take out the gun, swiftly pointing it at his insult-slinging face.

"Take that back."

"I don't think so. And the gun belt really isn't helping."

I draw a slow breath, forcefully bringing myself to a more controlled state.

"Where am I supposed to keep the gun?"

Maybe he'll listen to logic, for once in a lifetime.

Unlikely, but worth a shot.

"I can think of a few places."

A battle that would make Gog and Magog look like a couple of hormonal schoolgirls ensues between the urge to pull the trigger and consequentially rid my future of offensive remarks, and the yearning to do something else entirely to him.

Eventually, the theoretical bloodshed comes to a halt as the more immediate practicality of visceral desire prevails.

With a few necessarily twirls, I let the revolver return to its resting place, and cover the distance between us in a decisive stride.

He greets me by pretending to be an inanimate object. Being a natural, he puts on a convincing show.

I wait.

Maybe he's fallen asleep. I hear that tends to happen to old people.

I poke him with my foot experimentally.

He finally looks up at me with all the energetic charge of a morphine-injected sloth.

I fold my arms.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You told me to come here," I pronounce each word extra-slowly, to avoid growling them out.

"Right," he says agreeably, as if just now remembering that incident. "I fixed your pants."

That does it.

At least the change in location allows me to direct a sharp kick to his hip.

The impact leaves much to be desired, considering the bare condition of my foot, as well as the chemical composition of his suit, which has to include some breed of ultra-sneaky Kevlar in order to justify the inexplicable solidity.

A stubbed toe is hardly the optimal result I could've hoped for.

He makes a minimum effort to appear hurt by this, faking a distracted wince.

"This is how you thank me?"

"If I was any more grateful, I would've aimed at your face."

And likely discovered that it's constructed of studded concrete, but that's another matter.

I sit down next to him, doing my best to ignore the pointless signs my body keeps transmitting, insisting that it's getting a bit chilly.

He reaches into the uncharacteristically visible backpack he brought along, digging into it and coming up with the renowned article of clothing.

So he did actually fix them.

A new stripe of fabric covers the existing material; its coloration is slightly darker, camouflaging but not entirely obscuring the recent tear.

Good. It's not the sort of thing I can allow to go forgotten.

I run my finger over the fresh modification, appreciating the texture. It was probably done with the same needle he used on me.

"Nice," I evaluate. "Now knit me a sweater."

"Don't push it."

Unfortunately for him, pushing it is one of my favorite hobbies.

"I'll settle for a scarf."

The most prominent display of knitting at the moment consists of his eyebrows, as they attempt to become permanently united.

Beautiful. More caveman imagery. Just what I needed.

Is there really such a significant difference between mammoths and Metal Gears?

"How about I stitch your lips together? Now that'd be fun."

"Oh, but then I wouldn't be able to do _this_."

I lean closer to him; close enough to absorb a portion of the heat he's producing. Might as well get something out of it.

The only part of his body the suit fails to protect is his face, which somewhat limits my potential target range.

But I can work with that.

I start where I left off a while back, tracing the outline of his ear with my tongue, relishing the unfocused, not-fully-regulated expression it draws from him.

Everybody has a weak spot. The challenge is locating it.

The next maneuver I attempt is of a more exploratory, invasive nature.

My angle doesn't provide much valuable visual input, but the shiver he belatedly remembers to suppress gives me all the validation I need.

I must be doing something right.

This should be enough to bring my point across.

I lean away.

"Probably not," he admits.

"So how about that scarf? Mine is getting worn."

"Should I draw you a sheep, too?"

This unexpected development puts a dent in my pushing it strategy.

"You know that book?"

"Yeah. She makes everyone read it. Liked the part with the box."

Here we go.

"_What_ part with a box?"

"The part where he draws the sheep. In a box. It's ingenious."

Of course it is.

"There's something deeply wrong with you. You know that, right?"

His admission comes in form of a half-hearted snarl.

"Just take the goddamn pants."

"Are you sure pants are what I need most right now?"

The possibility of a verbal response is roughly eliminated as he drops the untouchable façade, pulling me into an impatient kiss.

The pants are promptly discarded.

Now that's an answer I'm partial to.

The wild assortment of zippers and snaps that covers his suit is considerably easier to handle now, even though they still give the impression of a maze designed by a hospitalized mental patient with far too much time on his hands.

Once I wrestle it off, with negligible help from him, there are no more obstacles to overcome.

The only restrictions left are the ones set by nature, and even those are only sketchy guidelines.

A rough draft in no need of refinement.

I settle on top of him, my knees digging lightly into his sides.

He still carries the scent of the battlefield. Or, most likely, it never leaves him.

Gunpowder. Sweat. Blood.

All soaked in the spicy, not entirely decipherable essence that shapes him.

There is no better combination.

He brings a hand to my waist, establishing a strong, steady grip.

It's nothing compared to the holding power of the eye contact, though. I wonder, not for the first time, if he's capable of actual hypnosis.

It's close enough, at any rate.

Chains of command are easily breakable.

This is anything but.

His fingers slide up and down my thigh with a measured, deliberate slowness.

The exposed skin where the bandage used to be feels raw, more sensitive to the touch.

Maybe slow is alright, after this long a wait. Proportional. I'm sure there's a law of physics that corresponds with the idea, somehow.

I just can't recall what it is.

Nor do I particularly give a damn.

Slow doesn't last long.

Never does, with us.

Maybe it requires a different state of mind. One that isn't in constant battle.

But where's the fun in that?

I keep a hand on his chest to anchor onto… _something_.

As long as he's here, so am I.

The distant memory of cold air biting into naked skin is absorbed entirely in rapidly rising heat, spreading through my body in uneven waves.

Breathing is equally erratic, and I find it difficult to separate mine from his, at this rate.

There is little distinction in anything else.

Looking for meaning within an act is in itself meaningless.

It's a simple, undisputed fact.

But this is more than an animalistic jumble of heightened sensations.

Goes deeper.

Maybe too deep.

A sharp pain shoots up and through my thigh, sending a constricted breath out through my teeth.

The pace is disrupted, bringing about an unwelcome break.

"Fuck."

Redundant as that statement is, he doesn't remark on it.

Instead, his face assumes that peculiar expression I've only recently achieved the ability to translate.

Concern.

"You alright?"

Does he think I'm _fragile_?

"Stop asking that."

He attempts a passive shrug, as far as the position and overall condition we're in allows.

It isn't all that far.

"You did spend most of the week hallucinating."

"The ninja was real."

"Reality-" he releases a trapped breath, obviously not quite as unaffected by human limitations as it often appears, "is a very relative concept."

True, especially around him.

But this is hardly the time for metaphysical musing.

The physical realm has far more to offer at the moment.

Pain is a necessary part of it, for better or worse.

I press my hand deeper against his chest, my nails leaving reddish traces on his skin. Marking territory.

"Shut up."

I don't give leeway for the amusement he likely has in store, renewing the motion without seeking his permission.

He doesn't seem to mind.

The rhythm grows more frantic, less predictable. Seeking the completion point.

I'm not ready to allow it, yet.

Sure as hell not before he is.

I feel the sweat gathering up at the back of my neck; at the small of my back. Ticklish, but in no way distracting. Backdrop, nothing more.

Mental processes become smeared and fractured, losing whatever order they once held. All meshing into a messy, purposeless collage.

What good are thoughts, anyway?

I lock myself back into his gaze.

His lips are parted only slightly, emulating a silent, deadly hiss.

The one eye is glinting in merciless concentration.

A hunter going for the kill.

_That's it. _

That's the intensity I'm looking for.

That's where we're supposed to be.

I barely register the untamed grunt he releases through the deafening echo of my own heartbeat, thundering and pounding against my eardrums.

Perception of the world is lost entirely in this moment.

I have no idea whether I make a sound or not. Or why it should even make a difference.

I close my eyes to absorb the impact.

It's perfect.

Once it's gone, there's nothing.

Nothing then transforms into lightheadedness.

I stay frozen until discomfort begins to demand notice. This still doesn't make me anxious to move.

It works its way up to soreness, as well as a more potent pain which I faintly recognize as a pulled muscle.

A week of forced leisure doesn't come without its endearing side effects.

He finally releases his hold on me, his hands dropping to his sides. Signaling that he needs a recharge, too.

I stifle my reluctance to generate motion and roll away, landing mutely with my back against the sleeping bag.

I let my breath catch up on itself, listening to him doing the same.

Some time passes. The quantity is irrelevant.

Recalibration and normalization of life signs takes place.

I've never liked this part.

If this was a movie, the credits would've taken up this spare, needless space.

Then again, if this was a movie, I wouldn't have pulled a goddamn muscle.

That's distinctly uncinematic.

Once I'm done counting the ways in which movies are superior to reality, I turn to check on him.

His gaze is directed upwards, colliding with the sky with a strange emptiness.

As if he'd gotten lost within himself.

Not an impossible feat.

It's a trance I need to break him out of.

I turn over onto my stomach, placing my chin on his shoulder.

"So how did your infiltration adventure go, Big Boss?"

He doesn't respond at first, making me doubt whether he even heard me. Before I get the chance to repeat myself, he turns to me, adapting a grimace with a bitter smirk attached to it, without so much as semblance of a mellowing effect.

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"It sounds like a bad cliché. Besides, I don't deserve that title."

It suits him to have an opinion this nobly ridiculous.

"Modesty is a useless sentiment."

Now the smirk is more genuine.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?"

"Are you implying I'm a showoff?"

"_Implying_?"

"It's not my fault I'm better than everyone else. Acting otherwise would be a distortion of the truth."

He covers the road from smirk to laughter in the course of several seconds.

"You can be unbelievably charming sometimes."

I grin at him.

"I know."

My attention wanders back to his scar. By now, it has become less of an innovation and more an inbuilt part of him.

I reach out to touch it.

I don't like loose ends.

And I've never been skilled in letting things go.

"What _did_ they do to you?"

He tensely observes the movement of my hand, restraining what appears to be an urge to flinch.

"Nothing much," his reply is unsurprisingly toneless. "We just had a little chat over a cup of tea."

Tea and torture.

The all-time favorite pastime of secret agents.

"They were trying to get to you."

His lack of response confirms my suspicion.

"They _did_, didn't they?"

It's a long wait for a reply.

I fill it by running my tongue lightly over the scar, attuning myself to the minor alterations it makes to his breathing rate.

"Maybe Gene has a point."

This isn't good.

The polar opposite of it, in fact.

"The point being that he's completely insane."

He narrows his eye, more thoughtful than challenging.

"So having big dreams makes you insane."

"Usually. Especially when they involve nukes. But I think the term you're looking for is megalomaniac delusions."

"He's not doing it for himself. He can see there's something wrong with the world." A degree of wistfulness enters his voice, one that I should work on expelling, "He just wants to fix it."

There's always something wrong with the world.

It can mutate. Evolve.

But it can never be fixed.

"Which makes him all the more dangerous. You can predict what a selfish man would do. There's logic behind it, a pattern. These self-appointed martyrs are wild cards."

"A rigged game needs a few wild cards to even out the odds."

"The odds are never even. It's designed that way."

"And who designs it? Politicians?"

His naivety never fails to surprise me.

"Countries are led by figureheads. They're nothing but poorly drawn caricatures. And people buy it because it's an easier reality to accept."

"And what _is_ real?"

"Power is meaningless. It's all about control."

"What's the difference?"

It's not as easy to explain when you have to pick your words carefully.

"Volgin had power. Look how he ended up."

"Volgin was an idiot."

I think the expression goes 'No shit, Sherlock'.

"This isn't about _intelligence_. He could've been a behemoth Einstein and it wouldn't have made the least bit of a difference. A king is still only a pawn."

A hand grasping my hip interrupts my metaphor flow.

He has that overly intense look again, the kind that should at the very least come with X-ray vision.

"Who has control?"

This doesn't sound rhetorical. Or philosophical, for that matter.

It's a little too concrete for my taste.

"Is that a riddle?"

"If it is, then you should have no problem solving it."

The conviction in his voice is inescapable.

I've obviously said too much.

I can't afford to be careless. Much as I long to.

I can give him _a_ truth, even if it's far from the complete version.

"It's never the one who's at the top. It's hard to pull the strings on yourself."

The answer doesn't satisfy him.

He knows that I know.

For a moment of latent panic, I'm almost sure that he's going to call me on it.

But he simply strokes my hipbone idly, gaze redirected sideways.

He respects the rules of the game.

I'm not sure how long that will last.

"So they sent you to neutralize the nuclear threat."

He got the 'they' right, but not the 'what'.

"I'm not worried about the missiles. Gene may be crazy, but he's not stupid."

"Then why are you here?"

To deal in fabricated truths.

And, for once, not find it amusing or enjoyable in any way.

"Somebody needs to watch over the status quo."

Until it's no longer needed.

Everything becomes expandable at some point.

Everyone.

"Good luck with that."

The grilling session is over.

I roll over again, relocating my head to his chest.

The strained muscle in my leg protests to this, but I pretend it doesn't exist.

A few elevations of his chest later, he reconstructs the silence with an odd question.

"Do you wish you could run away from all of this?"

Lacking in the energy for a full-scale laugh, I settle for a nasal snort.

"No. And neither do you."

"Guess not. But isn't that a thought people are supposed to get?"

"Sane people, maybe."

The rapid movement of his chest corresponds with a mental image of muted chuckle.

"What are we?"

"We know better."

In case this wasn't clear enough, I decide to expand on my theory.

"We live in the battle, John. It's what makes us who we are. We don't even have a definition outside it. Can you imagine another life?"

No hesitation precedes his answer.

"No."

"Then why bother?"

He has no answer, because there is none.

We lie relatively still for a while.

I have never associated lack of motion with anything remotely positive.

Serenity is only available to those of the Sasaki breed, who have never known anything to contrast it with.

Tranquility is a state that can only be imposed through a well-placed hit on the head, or one of those darts he likes so much.

This, right now, is as idle as it gets.

But there is no other place I'd rather be right now.

Nothing I'd rather be doing.

It's an odd sensation. But not an unpleasant one.

I like this moment.

Strange times call for strange behavior.

"I did miss you."

Oh shit.

I _couldn't_ have just said that.

"I didn't mean –" I stumble on my way to an excuse. The bastard just breaks into a smile, not even trying to be helpful. "It gets boring without a challenge, that's all." His smile widens, proportionally to my growing discomfort. There has to be a way to fix this. "It's not like-"

"I missed you too."

Oh.

"Okay."

The discomfort level diminishes at a gradual pace, fading away into something that feels… right.

A rustling of leaves rudely interrupts the rare moment of peace.

Drawing my revolver from the conveniently placed yet slightly chafe-inducing gun belt, I aim at the noisy bushes and fire a shot.

He looks at me.

"What?"

He shakes his head, then gets up, unceremoniously letting my head drop to the padded surface.

There is a certain advantage in this.

I get to appreciate a nice view from behind.

Maybe later I'll accuse him of prancing around naked, but right now, I'm content with the outlook.

He returns, carrying a small object in the palm of his hand.

"You shot a butterfly. I hope you're happy."

"I thought it was Campbell."

He sets me with a cold stare before resettling by me, butterfly in hand.

"You know, interesting thing about Ruby-spotted Swallowtail-"

I cut him off.

"Papilio anchisiades. Comes from the Parnassians and Swallowtails family. Can be found between South Texas and Argentina. Prefers tropical forests and citrus groves. Feeds on flower nectar- …what?"

His face looks like a battleground between perplexity and dismay.

"Are you a _collector _or something?"

"I spent a week with Para-Medic."

The expression eases up, and he nods empathetically.

"Actually, I meant to say that it tastes like chicken."

My mind goes mercifully blank, a safety mechanism I've developed for conversations of this sort.

They tend to happen at a high frequency around him.

"Chicken," I echo dully.

He nods.

"Yeah. Well, maybe with a little bit of lobster, but that's more of an aftertaste."

Erase all thoughts. Tabula rasa.

He holds the butterfly up, studying it at length under the pale lighting provided by the moon.

An objectionable premonition arrives, mucking up my carefully constructed clean slate.

"Tell me you aren't going to eat it."

He eyes me with dormant curiosity.

"Got a soft spot for butterflies?"

"Just the ones that I shot."

"Fine," he grumbles, proceeding to hand me the dearly departed insect. "Keep your trophy butterfly. I know you really want to make a necklace out of it."

"I don't make necklaces."

"And I don't knit sweaters."

Touché.

As I stare onto the lifeless creature, an idle thought comes to me.

If you are indeed what you eat, then John could populate an entire planet.

Then, a Eureka moment strikes.

"What is it?"

He sounds suspicious.

Maybe he noticed the light bulb appearing over my head.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"Aha."

"What?"

"This isn't 'just thinking'. It's devious thinking."

"Why would I be thinking deviously?"

"Because you're you."

Fair enough.

"I was just wondering…"

He furrows his brow, casting a fess-up-or-else look.

Well, if he insists.

"Have you given Campbell a codename yet?"

He frowns.

I smile.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

And it tastes like chicken.


	9. Night Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- VIII -  
> **

**\- VIII -  
**

**Night Watch **

_He's turning unstable. _

_Some of us are concerned. _

_We must keep him from becoming a threat. _

A goal. A mission. A higher purpose.

_Gain his trust. _

_Watch him. _

_Report. _

How can the execution be so remarkably easy when the essence is anything but?

His chest is rising and falling to a rhythm that's almost hypnotic. Impossible not to mimic.

If it wasn't for the soft snore occasionally slipping through the silence, he'd probably appear one step away from a corpse to an outsider.

But I know better.

I notice the tiny lines on his face, shifting slightly as if searching for a forgotten trail of thought.

The barely perceptible movement of his lips.

Restless.

Something is bothering him.

Something he can't let go of.

He won't stop until he eliminates it.

Or until it eliminates him.

It's a trait I'd find easy to admire, under a different set of circumstances.

Now I'm oddly wary of it.

It's ridiculous.

Change is inevitable, after all.

Those who fail to accept it are inflexible. Weak.

I'm neither of those things.

And I know he isn't.

So why can't I just let it rest?

He shifts in his sleep, muttering something that roughly translates into 'incoherent mumble'.

In three hours, we'll be back in the infamous truck, going over mission debriefing.

I should probably be getting some sleep, too.

But I've already wasted a lifetime's worth of time in bed this week, and my sheep counter is off. I'm afraid that if I'll close my eyes I'll start seeing Raikovs bouncing over a fence. Naked, probably.

I still have some use for my sanity. The little that's left of it.

So I watch.

Watch duty has never been renowned as terribly exciting, but it's efficient in sharpening pointless, often loop-inclined thoughts.

There's one I can't seem to shake. It keeps coming back, relentlessly nagging.

What does 'us' mean?

Finding partial answers isn't the problem.

There are dozens of them.

Lust. Rivalry. Respect. Occasional understanding. Sporadic companionship. Ill-placed trust.

It all sounds like a disjointed grocery list.

It can't be more than that, can it?

But it can't be just that, either.

I roll to my side, closer to him.

I don't enjoy being confused.

There's an answer to everything.

Only the lazy and the stupid believe otherwise.

Maybe it's the questions that are the problem.

Question that aren't supposed to be asked.

After all, ours is to do or die, or something to this effect.

I crane my neck, keep my lips hovering an inch from his.

What the hell am I looking for?

The goal needs to be clear. Otherwise everything else winds up being clouded, too.

Soldiers are bred to think in simple terms.

Spies are bred to take complicated terms and slice away at them until they become simple.

So what exactly has gone wrong here?

Something must have, or else I wouldn't be seeking answers on his face.

Maybe it is simple.

Too simple.

Hiding in plain sight.

But like most senses, sight is highly deceptive. He of all people should know that.

Like I should know to never put my guard down around him.

Now, for instance.

For such a successful corpse-imitator, his sudden movement is grossly out of character.

Grossly effective, too.

He has me pinned down again, and he's not even _awake_.

This is completely unfair.

Plain sight is a perpetual blind spot.

He quickly returns to playing dead, the steady snore recalibrating.

I go back to watching.

A goal. A mission. A higher purpose.

A mantra stuck on repeat.

A tapestry of self-deception.

My only comfort.

I turn my gaze to the sky.

Pitch black.

I prefer it that way.

There's something mildly unnerving about stars.

And that's an opinion I've held long before I started picturing kings and lamplighters dwelling on lifeless celestial bodies.

Besides, a starless sky makes me feel like we're all alone in the world.

It's a nice illusion.

But it won't last long.

A turning point is coming.

I can practically smell it.

Whatever destiny is chasing him, it's just around the corner.

And it's about to catch up.

There'll be not going back once it arrives, for either of us.

But for now, it's just another night.

I let his warmth seep into me; spread its tranquilizing numbness through my body.

I try to keep watch.

But eventually it becomes too warm.

Too cozy.

And I can't help but drift into sleep.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually dream.

I don't usually dream.

Tonight, I do.

I'm back in the desert.

It's him and me.

But it's different.

He's a shadow. Barely even that.

A fata morgana.

He's sliding away, beyond my grasp. Disappearing into the perfectly constructed horizon.

I should be calling out to him, but I already know it will be in vain.

There's no point wasting breath on something that's already set in motion.

I could go after him, but he hasn't left a trail for me to follow.

There's no place for footprints in a perfect desert.

No leaves to step on, no twigs to break.

Not even a cliff to wander aimlessly off.

I could say I don't believe in symbolism, but that would be a lie.

It's one of the only things I believe in.

There are no smells.

No sounds.

Only me.

Is this how death feels like?

Disappointing.

I stand still. My only option.

Something flickers in the distance.

Probably just a mild fluctuation in the wind.

But the wind never changes.

I take a step forward.

It's still there, whatever it is.

Waiting for me.

I start walking.

Predictably, the scenery doesn't change.

Everything is set in place. Immobile.

I need to reach the horizon, but the idea in itself is a paradox.

Never stopped me before.

I keep walking.

The distant image is becoming more defined, but I still can't capture it entirely.

Just a few more steps.

Rain starts to fall.

Everything is distorted, imperfect. But the clarity is somehow more prominent now.

I narrow my eyes and force myself to look ahead.

It's a shape now, but trapped in incompletion. Missing something.

I reach out to feel it, and it turns to me.

A horse?

There's a light nudge on my shoulder, then everything diminishes, folding into a nonexistent pocket universe.

I open my eyes.

The sun is barely out, peeking uncertainly through the remaining shadow veils. But even this counts as oversleeping.

Damn it.

He's dressed already, prepared to face the new day.

I'm not sure I am.

"You okay?"

I sit up, dream fragments gradually receding into oblivion. Leaving nothing but a vaguely uneasy feeling behind. The less healthy type of paranoia.

I pull my pants on.

I haven't answered him yet.

But I don't have an answer.

"Do you dream?"

His mouth takes a crooked shape, and he releases a small snort.

"Don't ask."

Don't tell.

I pick up one of my boots. Pass my thumb over the rowel, causing it to spin. Like a rodent caged in wheel.

Reminds me of someone.

A stinging sensation makes a meek plea for my attention.

I glance at my thumb.

Blood.

Funny. Never happened before.

He sends me a quizzical look over his shoulder.

I shake my head dismissively. Proceed to pull the boots on.

"Let's go."

Can't keep the mission waiting.

We head off.

I never dream again.


End file.
